


Undertale AU: Twistfell

by Lady_Kit



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (And not the fun kind), And I wanted another Papyrus to play with, Angst, Because my brain hates me, But I decided to make it anyway, Confinement, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Maybe - Freeform, Multi, Multiverse Shenanigans, No Smut, Oneshot collection, Romance, Sadism, Semi-graphic non-con, Sexual Slavery, Slice of Life, Stories tagged individually, Swapfell, Tags don't apply to all stories, The Undertale AU that no one wanted to asked for, Torture, Twistfell, Underfell, Undertale AU, underswap - Freeform, yes you read that correctly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-02-15 17:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13036044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Kit/pseuds/Lady_Kit
Summary: After years of pushing his subjects to raise their LV, Asgore has abdicated his throne and left it to his son, Asriel. He is trying to turn things around, but even with the help of his newly appointed royal Judge, Undyne, and a mysterious talking flower that seems very...familiar...he's fighting an uphill battle.But never mind that. Politics are boring. You came here for skeleton shenanigans, right? I hope so. Or you're going to be disappointed.Alternatively: Sans is a little ball of fluff and energy, and Papyrus is on the very edge of falling to his LV. They make it work.





	1. Broken teacups

**Author's Note:**

> Twist=Twistfell Papyrus  
> Blackberry=Twistfell Sans  
> Papyrus=UT Papyrus  
> Sans=UT Sans  
> Stretch=US Papyrus  
> Blue=US Sans  
> Edge=UF Papyrus  
> Red=UF Sans  
> Slim=SF Papyrus  
> Razz=SF Sans
> 
> For art, character bios, and headcanons posts, go to [@kitstwistfellau](https://kitstwistfellau.tumblr.com).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undyne should really know better by now.

Blackberry hummed quietly as he rolled out the dough. Then he turned to Undyne, saying that this was a kind of quick bread, so the dough needed to be treated delicately, or it would get tough. Privately, he thought Undyne probably didn’t have the patience or the inclination to restrain herself from rougher handling, particularly if it was going to “toughen up” the final product. But he kept that observation to himself. It would have been rude to share it. Besides, he always liked to give people the chance to surprise him.

And, as it turned out, she did. “Yeah, cool,” she said absently, watching him but not really seeing him. Her mind was obviously elsewhere, he noted, but again, chose to keep that observation to himself. Later, when they were seated at the table, sharing tea and fresh-baked scones, he could gently pry the answer from her, but for now, he’d let it lie.

As he put the scones in the oven, though, she surprised him again. “Hey, squirt, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” she said slowly. He looked up, trying to ignore the dough still stuck to his fingers. Gumming up his joints. Clinging to his phalanges. _Blegh_.

“What is it, Ca— _Judge_ ,” he corrected himself at the last minute. Shortly after being crowned, Asriel had reopened the position of Royal Judge. Who better to fill it than the Spear of Justice herself?

She took a breath then and said, “Why don’t we sit down, huh?” She gestured to the table, where a fresh pot of tea waited for them.

Blackberry’s smile didn’t waver, but inside, alarm bells were going off. This was bad. This was going to be bad. Was she going to say that he couldn’t be part of the guard? He knew he was small. Knew he had no LV. But wasn’t Asriel trying to turn things around? Blackberry could serve as the example of what a guard _should_ be: cheerful, helpful, strong, and most importantly, merciful. Right? He knew he could be a guard—he just needed her to give him a shot.

“Okay!” he said agreeably, giving no hint of his internal turmoil.

He checked the oven temperature and set the timer, then went over to the sink to thoroughly wash his hands. (No, he wasn’t stalling. That was ridiculous. The Splendid Sans did not _stall_.) Then, patting his hands dry, he joined Undyne at the table, beaming at her. She’d already poured a cup for him, and he stirred cream and sugar into the tea. His soul pulsed and pounded as he waited for her to speak, but his grin never faltered.

She leaned over her mug, hands cupped around it as she stared into the rich, black liquid. “You know how Alphys has been working to find a way to lower everyone’s LV?”

He blinked, surprised. “Oh, yes!” he said cheerfully, more than a little relieved, “It’ll be so nice if she’s successful. All those poor monsters that lost themselves…. Their families must miss them terribly!”

Undyne’s features froze briefly and she looked away. “Right.” She took a long drink of her tea, though it was obviously still too hot. Blackberry’s expression briefly flickered from bright and cheerful to concerned as he watched her drink. She set the mug down heavily, and by the time she looked back up at him, he was grinning once more. “Well. She’s been experimenting on the monsters that are already…‘gone’, right? And, she’s had some success…but. Well. She says that it might be helpful if she had a subject that wasn’t…wasn’t entirely gone yet. A borderline case, as it were.”

Blackberry’s fingers tightened around his mug as relief turned to something sharper. Silently, he willed her not to say what he knew she was going to say. “Really?” he said, still bright, still cheerful. But strained, too. “Interesting. I thought she’d want to get her current subjects to stop _melting_ before she moved onto monsters that haven’t lost themselves entirely. That seems more sensible to me, but then gain, I suppose I’m not a scientist.”

Undyne flinched a little, but being Undyne, she didn’t back down. “Sans, you know that Papyrus is unstable—“

The mug shattered between Blackberry’s hands. Ceramic shards and hot tea spilled across the table, burning his hands. Undyne’s eyes went wide and she jumped in shock, but Blackberry didn’t move. He kept smiling, but it was a frozen rictus now. “For the sake of our friendship,” he said carefully, “I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation. And if you ever try to bring this up again—” He extinguished his eyelights. “—we’re going to have a bad time. Understand?”

He waited for her to nod before he reignited his eyelights. “Oh, my. What a mess. Here—“ He hopped down to fetch a dishtowel and the garbage bin. He swept the shattered mug into the bin and wiped down the table, saying, “I’m so sorry about the mug. It didn’t have any sentimental value, did it? No? Oh, good. I’ll have a replacement for you before our next lesson. Speaking of—“ He went over to the oven to check on the scones.

All the while, Undyne just watched him with something like pity in her gaze. Blackberry just swallowed tightly and pretended not to notice. What did she know anyway? About him or about Twist? She didn’t even _like_ Twist!

“Alright,” he said, pulling out the scones even though they were still partially raw. “We’re done here.” His throat was tight and his eyelights overbright. “I’m going home now.”

“I’ll walk you,” she said. He would have refused, but she wouldn’t have taken no for an answer anyway. It was a long, awkward walk back to Snowdin, and the silence between them hung heavy. She left him at the gate, confident that no one inside Snowdin itself would dare harm him.

Blackberry went straight home—though he waved at the Snow Bunnies as he passed them, and congratulated the Dogi on their upcoming wedding, holding back tears all the while. Desperately hoping Twist was at home, Blackberry burst into the house without even wiping the snow off his shoes. He froze when he saw Twist sitting on the floor. The pet rock sat in front of him, and he held a container of sprinkles in one hand. He looked up when Blackberry stepped inside and grinned broadly.

“Heya, little bro. Yer back early.”

Blackberry eyed him and the rock. “…Brother. What are you doing?”

“Tryna teach ‘im tricks. I wanted ta surprise ya. I think I got ‘im ta roll over, but he’s havin’ trouble with ‘fetch’.”

For a moment, Blackberry just stood there in silence. Then he swept forward and wrapped his arms around Twist’s neck and buried his face in his chest. Twist immediately caught him up in a tight hug, rubbing a large hand over his back. “Easy there, little bro,” he murmured, his rough voice soothing and soft, “Yer okay, sweetheart. Yer okay. Everything’s gonna be jus’ fine. Whatever it is, I promise it’ll be fine.”

Twist, still murmuring soothingly, picked him up and sat both of them on the couch, projecting /comfort/safety/warmth/ until Blackberry was limp and relaxed, purring quietly. “There ya are, little bro. Feel better now?”

Blackberry nodded faintly, but didn’t release his older brother. “Thanks,” he whispered, wiping the bright blue tears from his sockets.

Twist pulled back just a little, trying to get a better look at him. “Good. Now…who do I gotta beat up? Was it Doggo? Was he teasin’ ya again?” Blackberry shook his head, smiling faintly. “Was it Grillbz? He comin’ onta ya? I warned ‘im—“

“ _No,_ ” Blackberry said, starting to laugh in truth. He shoved his brother lightly. “Stop. There will be no violence on my behalf!”

“Aw, c’mon. I’ll jus’ rough ‘em up a bit. Nuthin’ serious.”

“ _No!_ ”

“Yer no fun anymore.”

Blackberry laughed, confident his brother was joking, and curled into his chest, allowing the continued projections to sweep over him comfortingly. Silently, Blackberry vowed that he wouldn’t allow the other monster to fall to his LV. Whatever it took, Blackberry wouldn’t allow him to lose himself. No matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Let me know what you think of these guys. Your interest directly dictates how much content I produce for these guys.


	2. Unwelcome Endearments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Edge has an unexpected guest to see to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiverse shenanigans. (I'm sorry.)

As soon as Edge walked in the front door, he knew something was wrong. He summoned a bone dagger immediately and stepped inside, concealing the dagger’s glow with his hand and listening close. He shut the door soundlessly and stepped inside, straining his senses to determine what had put him on alert. Then he took a breath, and his shoulders relaxed even as his mouth set into a hard line.

He stormed into the kitchen and laid the dagger across the back of the other skeleton’s neck. “Are you _smoking_ in my kitchen?” he demanded, glaring down at Twist.

Absurdly, Twist leaned back—into Edge’s dagger, forcing Edge to dismiss it or slice into his cervical vertebrae—and looked up at him, blowing smoke through his nasal aperture. “Maybe?” he said, grinning too broadly. “Heya, sweetheart, welcome home.”

Edge snatched the cigarette away, earning laughter. “I am not your ‘sweetheart’,” he snapped, “And you cannot break into other people’s houses to _smoke_ in their kitchens.”

“I can’t? Well, shit. How the fuck did I get here then?” He made a point of looking around the kitchen, as though baffled. Edge grit his teeth, stubbing the cigarette out in the sink. He spun to regard his alternate, arms crossed so he was less likely to march over and smack the grin off his face. The spiderweb of cracks and scars across his right cheekbone and socket made a very tempting target.

Instead, Edge narrowed his sockets and demanded, “Where’s your keeper, mutt?”

Twist’s grin sharpened, and he cocked his head just slightly. “Yer confusin’ me with the razzberry’s little dog, darlin’.”

“ _Slim_ ,” Edge snapped, “is much too dignified to confuse with the likes of _you_. And if you use one more fucking pet name, then I’m going to make sure it is the very last you ever use. On anyone.”

“Promise~?”

Edge clenched his fist, his soul vibrating with rage. “Where’s your brother?” he asked again, speaking slowly and enunciating clearly.

Twist gestured, conjuring a gold coin from somewhere. Probably stuffed up the sleeve of his hoodie or palmed inside one of his gloves. Edge tried to ignore the vertigo looking at Twist always induced. Between his black jeans, the black hoodie with red hood and sleeves, and the network of scars across his socket, it was a lot like looking in a particularly unfunny funhouse mirror. Not even the other Papyrus-es could induce quite the same effect.

It was creepy. And unsettling. A lot like Twist himself.

The coin continued to bounce across his fingers. “ ‘m bored,” Twist observed absently, then eyed him up and down. “Wanna fuck?”

Rather than upsetting or flustering him, the words actually caused Edge’s soul to chill. Just a little. “Twist,” he said, getting the other Papyrus to actually look at him. His remaining eyelight, the same shade of gold as his magic, was sharp and crisp around the edges. Too alert. Too aware. Edge stepped forward, planting a hand on the table. “Where. Is. Blackberry?”

His smile softened, losing its sharpness. “With the princeling. Havin’ tea er sumthin’—discussin’ the future ‘a the Underground, if the little guy can be believed.” Edge couldn’t help but sigh in relief at that. For a moment…. Well. He’d been worried. “Wait a minute. Where’s yer little bro?” He looked around the kitchen then, going so far as to look under the table, as if he thought Red might have been hiding there this whole time.

“In Underswap,” Edge answered, “and he’s the older brother, mutt.”

“Still little, though,” Twist said, laughing.

While they spoke, Edge continued to study Twist—noting that his fingers were not as nimble as they should have been, that his leg bounced with excess energy. That his movements were jerky, as if he was restraining himself. He remembered the sharpness of Twist’s smile, how he’d started by deliberately provoking Edge. As if he was itching for a fight. “Who was it?” Edge asked abruptly, tone softer now.

The coin fumbled, but Twist caught it with his other hand. He laughed, the sound a low, unhappy rumble. “Ya know, edgelord? Tha’s why I like ya; ya pay attention. Ya notice all the little things, doncha?” He reached into his hoodie pocket, then froze. “Sure I can’t smoke?” Edge raised a brow-bone. Twist sighed, put-upon. “Fine. _Fine._ ” Under his breath, he said, “Killjoy.” Then he pulled out a bottle of— _ugh_ —horseradish sauce and took a healthy swig. “Does it matter who? Some little pissant, practically askin’ ta get dusted.”

“Your LV?”

Twist’s head rolled loosely on his neck as he grinned—too broadly, too sharply. “The EXP won’ settle. ‘s makin’ me…jittery.” He chuckled a little, though there was no humor in his laughter. “Ya know the feelin’ doncha, edgelord? Like ya gotta fight er fuck er jus’…lose yer damn mind?”

Slowly, Edge straightened and turned to retrieve a glass and a bottle of sriracha. If they were doing this, then he sure as shit wasn’t doing it sober. “How long?” he asked.

“Few hours now.”

Edge nodded, sitting across from him. “Cards?” he suggested.

“Aw, sweetheart. Now yer speakin’ my language.”

Edge reached out and snatched the coin he’d been playing across his fingers. “I mean it,” he said sharply, “About the pet-names. Unless you want this night to go very, very differently.”

Twist eyed his hand, not responding until Edge released the captive coin. “Sure, edgelord, if yer gonna be like that about it.” As Edge shuffled the cards, Twist watched his fingers, still absently playing with the coin or taking the occasional swig of horseradish. “Ya’d do it, right? If I…?”

Edge glanced up at him, then kept shuffling. “Yes.”

Twist relaxed, just a little. “Good.” Edge started to deal. “What ’er the stakes?”

Edge snorted. “I’m not stupid enough to gamble with you. We’re playing ‘Go Fish’.”

That got him laughing long and hard.


	3. Sins of the Past, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Papyrus and Sans try to make the best of a bad situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Pt. 1 of a multi-part story. Both segments deal with disturbing and potentially upsetting themes including **rape, prostitution, sexual slavery, abusive relationships, murder, torture, permanent injury, and gang activity.**
> 
> Please do not proceed if any of these themes are upsetting to you.

Papyrus leaned against the headboard, bouncing a gold coin across his knucklebones. He flexed his fingers, palming the coin and passing it to the other hand before he started to play it across his fingers again. Muffet slept beside him, looking oddly innocent. He smirked a little, amused by that notion.

He lifted his head when he heard his brother’s door open and close. Besocked feet padded down the hall and into the kitchen. Papyrus closed his hand around the coin and slipped out of the bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping Spider. He hooked his toe through a belt loop and kicked last night’s discarded trousers into his hand. He pulled them on but didn’t bother with a shirt.

Out in the hall, he stuffed the coin into his pocket and traded it for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shut the door gently behind him; now that Sans had taken over the baking, Muffet preferred to sleep in whenever possible. Papyrus stretched, the magic in his joints popping pleasantly. He tapped a cigarette out of the pack and lit up, pulling smoke into his thoracic cavity. He exhaled hard and walked down the hall, leaning on the doorjamb as he watched Sans dump a mound of dough onto the butcher block. “Heya, bro. Wha’s on yer ta-do list this mornin’?”

Dark blue ectoflesh covered his bones from distal phalange to elbow. Flour clung to his hands as he punched down the dough. “First I’ve got some cinnamon skulls to make. Then I’ve got sourdough loaves to shape, sugar cookies to bake, donuts to fry, and—Brother! Are you smoking in here?”

Papyrus eyed the lit cigarette and hid it behind his back. “…no?”

Sans sighed. “I thought you were trying to quit?”

“Sorry, bro,” Papyrus said with a shrug, “ ‘s harder than I thought it’d be.”

Smiling sadly, Sans started shaping the dough. “That’s okay, brother. As long as you keep trying, I’m sure you’ll manage eventually.”

Warmth spread out from Papyrus’s admittedly battered and bruised soul. “Thanks, bro,” he said, smiling gently. He glanced at the cigarette, then walked over to the sink and snuffed it out, discarding the butt. Sans watched this with a quiet, approving smile. “You need help with anything?” Papyrus asked, coming to stand behind him.

Sans’s smile turned uncertain. “Brother….”

“I won’t set anything on fire this time, I promise!”

“Well….” Down the hall, Muffet called out for him, and Sans’s smile returned full-force. “Sorry, brother. It looks like the boss needs you.”

Papyrus sighed. “Next time, then.”

Sans’s pupils shrank a little. “Yeah. Maybe next time,” he said. Papyrus scrubbed a rough hand over Sans’s skull, earning a muffled protest and a faceful of flour. Sans fought dirty. Laughing even as he tried to brush the flour off his cheekbones, Papyrus retreated from the kitchen and padded down the hall. Even though she’d called for him, he still paused outside Muffet’s door and knocked. When she ordered him to enter, he stepped inside hesitantly, waiting to get a good read on her and her intentions before he allowed himself to react.

She was smiling openly—still nude and making no effort to hide that fact. He relaxed a little, allowing himself to grin. He could handle this. This wasn’t so bad. This he could do. “Heya,” he drawled, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. “Somethin’ I can help ya with, boss?”

She crawled forward, moving fluidly. Gripping his clavicles and iliac crests, she pulled their bodies flush, claws pricking at his bones. “Hmm…I’m feeling a bit peckish. Think you can help me with that, dearie?”

He skated a hand down her back and gripped her ample hips. “I think I could prob’ly beg some breakfast off ‘a Sans.”

“Ahuhuhu~. How gentlemanly…but I’m hungry for something else this morning.”

“Oh? An’ what’s that, boss?”

“You,” she said, fitting her mouth over his clavicle and biting down. He hissed, his hands tightening around her hips until the flesh bruised. He didn’t try to pull away, even when she sucked magic and marrow from the cracked bone. She’d taught him better than that by now. Drawing back, she reached up and pulled him down for a kiss. Before things could progress further, a spiderling crawled in through the vent, hissing urgently.

Muffet’s eyes snapped open and she shoved him away, focusing her attention on the spiderling. Business always came first. ~~Thankfully~~. While they spoke in the language of Spiders, Papyrus turned away, only able to identify a few hissed words here and there. “parlor”. “boss”. “territory”. He pulled clothing from the wardrobe and laid it on the bed for her, not sure if he should be grateful for the interruption or not. Sure, he’d been spared having to screw her—for the time being—but he recognized that look on her face. Whatever news the spiderling brought wasn’t good. There would be bloodshed, and he needed to be ready to get his hands dirty.

He smoothed out the wrinkles, mentally preparing himself. The chittering stopped abruptly, and he turned to eye her. Her gaze was distant, unfocused. He dropped his eyelights, deliberately steadying his breath and forcing his limbs to relax. “What happened?” he asked. Because she would expect it. Because it would be worse if he didn’t ask.

“The _Pyropes_ are moving in on my territory,” she said shortly, her fingers curling around the footboard. She suddenly snapped around to look at him, all eight eyes narrowed. “Do you believe that? The audacity. The _gall_.” She exhaled slowly, standing from the bed and snatching the dress up at she did. “I ought to crush them under my heel,” she snarled, demonstrating with a twist of her foot. “I should rain their dust from the rooftops like _confetti_.” He couldn’t help it—he snickered. The imagery was too much for him. Before he had the chance to regret his ill-timed laughter, she spun on him, intent and focused and enraged. “Is that funny to you, dearie?”

Backpedaling would be a mistake. She would latch on to any sign of weakness. Instead, Papyrus slouched his shoulders and forced his cervical vertebrae to relax. Gesturing loosely, he said, “Ya want my opinion, boss?” She stalked toward him, but he held his ground, maintaining his relaxed posture. “Why don’ ya set up a meetin’ with ‘em? Bring some ‘a yer boys an’…make yer, uh, ‘displeasure’ known, huh?”

She smiled slowly and motioned for him to come closer. His soul dropped, but he did as she bid. What other choice did he have? When he was close enough, she hooked her fingers through his jawbone and yanked his head down so that they were eyelight-to-eye. “Please, Papyrus. Dearie. _Sweetheart_. Just stand there and look intimidating.” She patted his cheek condescendingly. “Thinking isn’t your strong suit.” Pulling her hand free, she shoved him away and said, “Be grateful you’re a good lay, or I’d have disposed of you years ago.”

Pacing back and forth, she started to mutter under her breath. He just finished getting dressed, pretending he wasn’t aware of her every move and every unintelligible word. He smoothed out the purple tank he wore, then dipped a hand into his pocket to bring out the coin. He kept his breathing deliberately even and slouched against the wall. With his eyelights focused on the coin playing over his fingers, it would have been easy to think that he wasn’t paying attention to her. But he catalogued every turn of her heel and every twitch of her mouth, hyper-aware of her movements.

Finally, she paused and speared him with a look. “How are you with explosives?”

He cocked a brow-bone.

 

Tugging his hood low, Papyrus made his way through the Pyrope’s gambling parlor. The air smelled faintly sweet, a remnant of cigar smoke. Remembering Sans’s admonishment that morning, Papyrus resisted the urge to dip a hand into his pocket and pull out a cigarette. He reached up with gloved fingers to adjust the mask over his features.

In this part of town, masks weren’t all that uncommon. Nobility and other “respectable” monsters frequently visited Hotland’s drug dens and gambling parlors…and the brothels, of course. When Metatton’s casino seemed passé and their own sweetpieces grew boring, they came here to slum with the masses and reassure themselves of their own superiority. Papyrus would have lost track of all the guards and nobles he’d caught, masked and happily drugged to the gills or dick-deep in a sex worker. Would have, that is, if he didn’t keep careful records. He wasn’t the type to forgive a debt or forget a moment worthy of blackmail. Muffet had taught him better than that.

Ironically, it was usually the ‘respectable’ monsters that forgot—or didn’t obey—the unspoken rules of the Underground’s underground. But Papyrus knew the rules intimately. He’d had them beaten into him from the time he was 12 years old. So he was able to move through the crowd, unmarked and unmolested, even if he had to fend off the occasional pickpocket.

The parlor was located underneath a warehouse just inside Spider territory. And the Pyropes must be feeling particularly bold, if they thought that Muffet either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t care about _this_. Perhaps she was right. This offense needed to be answered with something a little more explosive (heh) than a simple meeting to truly dissuade them. It wasn’t exactly a small operation. The main room hosted blackjack and roulette and…a few less savory games. He could hear the crowing of surface animals and the cries of Whimsum and Whimsalot coming from one corner, which he studiously avoided. Some things were distasteful even to him.

Instead, he approached a blackjack table and started to play absently. Ordinarily, he’d hate to rely exclusively on the whims of chance, but he needed to keep a low profile and losing was the best way to do that. Pretending to study the dealer’s hands, he covertly scanned the room. He needed privacy for what ~~Muffet~~ he had planned, but no idea where he might go to obtain it. When he spotted a couple of monsters being allowed into the back, he had the solution. He tapped the table—flinching when the cards added to 22—and took note of the sweet-pieces milling amongst the patrons.

There weren’t many of them, but they were unmistakable. Unmarked and polished, purity bleeding off of them like something tangible. They were flirtatious as they approached the patrons, catering to each monster’s species and type. And around each of their necks was a collar, likely embossed with their owner’s name…and their price.

Papyrus looked down at the cards as his fingers began toying with one of the chips. He didn’t like knowing that they would be trapped in here too. He didn’t much like their circumstances to begin with—they reminded him too much of his brother, of the way people would look at him when they came in to buy pastries or donuts, of being asked, ‘how much for the sweet-piece?’ far too often—but he hated knowing that they would suffer from what ~~Muffet~~ he had planned. It wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair.

He closed his hand around the chip and resigned himself. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe in fair play anymore.

As a Bunny monster walked past, he snagged her wrist and tugged her over, looking up at her. At the collar around her throat. “Heya, darlin’,” he said, “you available?” He ignored the fear flickering in her eyes, the fake smile she plastered on. Though he did notice how she relaxed at his thick accent; a local was bound to treat her more kindly than a slumming nobleman. Leaning across his shoulder, she pressed her mouth against his skull, speaking against the spot she thought his ear might be located. Between his cloak and the mask, she likely couldn’t tell.

“For you? Of course.” She eyed his chips, saying, “Doesn’t look like you’re having much luck tonight. Want me to blow on them?”

He chuckled. “Tha’s dice, darlin’. But I ‘preciate the thought.” His soul felt heavy. Cold. It was time. He couldn’t justify hesitating any longer. He folded and stood, gathering up his remaining chips and passing them off to the sweet-piece. “Why don’ we take this somewhere a little more private, huh?” She agreed, looping her arm through his. Because he enjoyed torturing himself, he asked her about herself as they walked across the parlor’s floor. What was her name? How old was she? Did she have any siblings? How many? Did she ever get to see them? Every answer scored his soul.

He reminded himself that it didn’t matter. Muffet wouldn’t accept failure, wouldn’t accept a less destructive path. And in the end…she held his leash. She was their protector, their keeper. Sans’ safety depended on her goodwill, and Papyrus would do whatever she asked. Even this.

However, as the bouncer allowed them into the back and she guided him toward her room, he made a decision he would probably regret. Once inside, he shut the door carefully and surveyed her, taking a fortifying breath. “Hey, darlin’?” She looked up at him, and he asked, “Is there a back way outta here?” Her brows furrowed and she shook her head, starting to back away from him. Grimacing, he pulled off the concealing cloak and mask. Then he lifted his shirt, revealing the pack of explosives he’d taped to the inside of his ribcage for safekeeping. “My boss ain’t exactly pleased with yours. I wanna give ya the chance ta get out, though. Ya don’ deserve what’s comin’.”

She took another step back, one hand on the doorknob and the other pressed against her mouth. “Is that—?”

He delicately pulled the explosives free, checking to make sure the wiring hadn’t been disturbed. “ ‘s exactly what ya think it is, sweetheart. Go on, then. Get out while ya can. Grab yer friends too. None of ya deserve this.”

Like a proper bunny, she bolted from the room, and he nodded to himself, satisfied. Did it assuage his guilt? No. He knew letting one person go free wouldn’t absolve him of his other crimes. As soon as she was out of the room, he set thoughts of her aside and focused on the bomb. He studied it again, checking it over, then knelt down to attach it to the bedframe, underneath the mattress. He’d set it for an hour from—

The door burst open. Papyrus looked between the parlor’s monsters and his fingers, still around the bomb. “Yer lucky I got steady hands,” he said, his soul going cold and heavy. He should have known better. Kindness had only ever earned him pain. After 22 years and 12 LV, you’d think he’d have finally learned that lesson. Clambering to his feet, he pushed the bomb under the bed, where it would be somewhat protected. Muffet was going to be _pissed_ , but Papyrus had no intention of setting the bomb off while he was still inside. He summoned his bone daggers, body going loose and ready.

~~He wasn’t going to make it.~~

He flung himself to the side when the first monster—a tall, broad thing he barely bothered to identify as an overgrown Vulkin—charged at him, spilling magma from its head. He flung the dagger, turning it blue with a moment of thought. It caught the Vulkin and pinned him, almost comically, to the wall. He clutched at the dagger to pull it out, not understanding that his soul was caught and pinned by magic rather than the dagger.

Papyrus didn’t have time to appreciate his confused flailing. Two Pyropes were attacking him, spooling off flaming rope. He dipped and dodged, hating the tiny room that left him with no room to maneuver.

He clenched his command hand, sending a wave of spiked bones toward the Pyropes. They dodged easily, but at the last second he flung his hand wide, causing the bones to shatter. Bone fragments careened through the air, impossible to dodge. No single fragment had enough intent imbued in it to do much damage by itself, but there were so many that the attack took out a good chunk of HP. Papyrus smirked, summoning another dagger.

The blue magic on the Vulkin’s soul wore off and it lumbered forward, roaring its rage. And likely summoning more guards. The Pyropes crept forward, while a Tsunderplane flew in past them, the small monster dropping fire directly on top of him. He hissed and dropped to one knee, but sent wave after wave of bones at the Pyropes and the Vulkin, keeping them back. Fire seared his bones, and he clenched his jaw against the pain while his HP dropped.

A tall bone spear impaled the Tsunderplane next time she tried to make a pass around the room. She screamed, oil dripping in thick rivulets down the bone’s golden surface. The Pyropes cried out when another bone shattered and sent shrapnel through the air, cutting into them. The Vulkin crept forward, despite the bone shards. Apparently, his HP was high enough that he didn’t mind taking the hit. With a roar, Papyrus sprung forward, driving a dagger into each Pyrope. They cried out and dusted.

EXP flooded him, not enough to boost his LV but enough to get his soul thrumming. He turned toward the door, figuring the Vulkin was too slow and lumbering to stop him—only to be thrown against the back wall, a bolt of magic lightning sizzling across his bones. He clamped his mouth shut as his HP dropped. Turning back to the Vulkin, he forced himself to his feet, calling on his magic to suppress the pain.

The bone impaling the Tsunderplane disintegrated, and she fell to the floor in a heap. Papyrus grabbed her by the wing and flung her at the Vulkin, ducking low as another bolt of lightning headed his way. He managed to avoid the attack, but the Tsunderplane was not so lucky. She screamed as the lightning coursed through her, her body already starting to dust.

Papyrus didn’t wait for her to finish dusting, didn’t wait for the Vulkin—naked horror and shock on his features—to recover. He just bolted for the door, sliding between a fire elemental and a Knight Knight likely on their way to intercept him.

He locked eyes with the elemental as he slipped past. For an instant, time seemed to slow. He was hyper-aware of the crackling of flames and the slow shifting of the elemental’s expression. From neutral to surprise to anger, as he realized who this skeleton was. Riding the high of his sudden escape, Papyrus gave him a cocky grin and a salute as he ran past, calling out, “Sorry, sweets! My dance card’s full. Maybe nex’ time we can tango, huh?”

Then time caught up with him, and he was racing through the parlor, pushing patrons out of the way and knocking over chairs and tables. Creating as much chaos as possible to make pursuit a chore. Shouts and screams followed him—particularly when he called up a pair of gaster blasters and directed them to start firing at random. One flew behind to sew chaos, while the other flew ahead to clear the way. A few times, he felt EXP flood his soul as a monster dusted, but he just used the sudden influx of energy to push back his pain and press onward.

Soon enough, he was clear of the gambling parlor and out, racing through the streets. Getting deeper and deeper into Spider territory and losing his pursuers along the way, he dismissed the blasters and slowed his pace, panting. Everything hurt. His HP was down by half, and his ribs felt cracked. Despite that, he was grinning almost manically—stunned and relieved and exuberant. Grateful just to be alive. He’s been _certain_ that he wasn’t going to get out of there. He’d been sure that his luck had finally run out. If his ribs weren’t so tender, he’d have laughed in relief. As it was, his expression must have been unsettling enough to keep the other monsters at bay; despite his weakened state, no one attempted to so much as approach him, let alone try to overpower him.

Heh. Maybe it was a good thing he was too injured to laugh.

When he reached the bakery’s door, he leaned against it briefly, thanking the stars and the Angel and whatever else might be listening in on his amorphous prayers. Safe. He was _safe_. Stepping inside, the bell jangled, and he grabbed the sign, flipping it to ‘Closed’. He locked the door when it shut. Muffet wouldn’t like turning away business, but he seemed to be dripping a mix of congealed mana and marrow on her floors. Sans would need to wipe that up before they entertained any more customers today. The spiderling manning the counter chirped at him, then scuttled into the kitchen to fetch Sans.

“Welcome to Muffet’s Muffi— _Papy!_ ” Sans threw the towel he’d been holding aside and rushed over, fluttering nervously.

“heya, bro,” Papyrus said, voice softer than usual. He raised a hand in greeting, wincing when it tugged at his cracked ribs. “ ‘s the boss in?” Papyrus honestly couldn’t decide if he hoped she was here or not. Sure, she’d be angry with him…but he’d served her for ten years now. She’d been his teacher, his caretaker, and was probably the closest thing to a friend—excluding his brother, of course—that he had. She’d patched him up countless times before. ~~Odds were, she was also the one to break him. But that was just to toughen him up. Without her, he’d have never survived. _Sans_ never would have survived. He should be grateful.~~

“Not right now,” Sans said, looking him over as he held out a supportive hand, not sure how best to help. He guided Papyrus into his bedroom—technically, their bedroom. Papyrus didn’t sleep much to begin with, and Muffet generally preferred to keep him close, but the brothers technically shared a bedroom. “What happened?” He guided his brother onto the bed, pulling a pillow up so he could lean against it.

“heh. don’ dance with vulkins. clumsy fuckers. they’ll step on yer toes. break yer ribs.” His laughter was rough and weezing.

“Brother….” Sans’s sockets were wide, the stars in his eyelights shrunk to pinpricks. Hurt because his brother was hurt. Papyrus gentled his smile and reached forward, scratching at Sans’s coronal suture. He wrapped the other arm around Sans’s ribcage and pulled him close.

“ ‘s okay, bro. ‘m okay. everything’s gonna be fine. i promise.” He winced when Sans squeezed just a little too tight but didn’t allow his brother to see.

“You need to eat something,” Sans said, sniffing faintly. “Here. Let me—“ He darted away, and Papyrus leaned back against the pillow, sockets shut. Silently hoping his brother might reappear with an apple or some carrots or melon slices, anything other than—“Here.” Sans held out a pair of spider donuts and a cinnamon skull.

Papyrus swallowed and accepted them, controlling his expression. “thanks bro,” he said, even if the scent of the donuts was starting to make him nauseous. He didn’t like sweets. They were cloying and heavy and— _ugh_. But his brother was right. He needed to eat, and something fresh, something raw simply wouldn’t have the same healthful, healing magic imbued into it. Besides, Sans’s cooking at least went down smooth. The magic incorporated easily and steadily into his soul. Muffet’s food was a bit like a slap in the face. He’d been grateful when Sans started taking over the cooking…and Muffet had been too. Sales at the bakery had increased exponentially.

Taking a deep breath, he took a bite of the first donut, the glaze so sweet it almost stung. He gulped it down, ignoring the film of grease and sugar that seemed to linger on his tongue. Stars, it was nearly enough to make him gag, but he forced the rest of the donut down in just a few bites. He snapped up the second one just as quickly, but paused to consider the cinnamon skull. His soul burned as it incorporated the influx of healing magic, flooding his mana lines and the healing matrix holding his broken bones together.

He still felt nauseous. He really didn’t want to eat the cinnamon skull. It was covered with a thick coating of cream cheese frosting, a pair of glazed pecans set in its face to serve as sockets. He stared back at it, shaking his head slightly. “Brother…” Sans said, pressing the hand holding the skull closer.

He shut his sockets and sighed. “right.” Then he forced it down too, hating how the frosting clung to his palate and his teeth. “can I have some milk, bro?”

“Of course!” As soon as Sans was out of sight, Papyrus pressed his forearm to his mouth, breathing steadily to fight back the nausea. His soul was positively _searing_ at this point, and the burning in his mana lines—not painful, exactly, but certainly intense—overrode the pain of the breaks. He lowered his hand and sat back, just in time for Sans to return with a tall glass of milk. “Here, brother,” he said, passing it over.

Papyrus smiled. “Thanks.” He drank slowly but steadily, trying to wash away the lingering sweetness.

“What happened?” Sans asked again, not willing to accept Papyrus’s joking as an answer.

Papyrus lowered the glass, rolling it between his hands. “Job wen’ wrong. Ya know how it is.” This was hardly the first time he’d stumbled home, bones cracked and HP down by half. He’d come back from jobs in worse shape, honestly. Once, when he was still a striped-shirt, he’d been dropped on Muffet’s doorstep, unconscious and so close to dusting that he hadn’t woken up for three days. “Looks like she’s gonna have ta find another way ta close ‘em down.” Secretly, he was relieved. He hadn’t wanted all that dust on his hands. His soul was heavy enough as it was.

Glancing up, he realized that Sans was visibly upset. Dark blue magic welled in his sockets and his bones were trembling so hard they rattled. “Aw, sweetheart. C’mere.” He pulled Sans onto the bed and pulled him flush against his side. “I’m fine, bro. I’m fine. Ya don’ gotta worry.”

Sans burrowed into his side, starting to project / CARE / AFFECTION / SAFETY / LOVE /. Papyrus shuddered and projected back, though his projections were weaker due to his high LV. “Of course I’m going to worry,” Sans said, sniffing. “…brother?”

“Hmm?” Papyrus asked, a little hazy from the strength of his brother’s projections. The magic in his soul had settled too, the searing heat becoming a gentle warmth that was actually quite nice. He could almost feel his HP rising, slowly but steadily.

“…can we leave?” Papyrus’s sockets cracked open, and he looked down at Sans, brow-bone cocked. “I don’t like it here anymore,” he said, voice soft. “Please. I’m always worried that you’re going to get killed and…Muffet…she….”

“What is it, bro?”

“…do you even like her that way? Do you want her like…like _that_?”

What he wanted didn’t matter. He wasn’t in a position to say ‘no’ to her. About anything. But his brother wouldn’t understand that. “What’s this about, Sans?”

“ _Please_ ,” he said again, nearly beggin, “Can we please leave?”

Papyrus stared at him blankly, not expecting this. He looked away and shook his head to clear it. “Listen, bro. I…we can’t make any decisions right now. Why don’ we talk about this after I take a nap and heal up a bit? ‘s that okay?”

Sans swallowed thickly, but he nodded and burrowed back into Papyrus’s side. “Okay.”

Papyrus’s sockets drifted closed, and he petted along Sans’s coronal suture, scratching the back of his skull gently. “Thanks, bro,” he murmured, half asleep. “We’ll talk ‘bout it later.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and you all thought I was just going to use this AU for comedic purposes, didn't you?


	4. Sins of the Past, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus b r e a k s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNING IF YOU HAVE ANY THEMES IN FICTION THAT YOU HAVE TROUBLE DEALING WITH. THIS IS AN INTENSELY UNPLEASANT CHAPTER AND FEATURES NON CONSENSUAL THEMES AND TORTURE. DETAILED TRIGGER WARNING IN THE END NOTES, MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS**
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> Seriously. This is probably the most disturbing thing I've written. Please be cautious going in. Step away if you find that this is not something you can handle.

When Papyrus woke, a couple hours later, his ribs were noticeably improved and if he took the time to check, he was certain his HP would have risen by more than a few hundred points. He blinked blearily, feeling the warmth of another, much smaller body beside his. He jolted, thinking that it was Muffet, but then he relaxed, remembering that he’d fallen asleep next to Sans.

There was, however, a spiderling sitting on his chest. He blinked again, and it blinked back at him. It crawled forward and tapped his cheekbone. Frowning, he blew on it, knocking it back. It chittered angrily, but he sighed, glancing at Sans. “boss want me?” he asked it, keeping his voice down.

Taking the excited gibbering for assent, he shifted a little, dislodging the spiderling from its perch and—more carefully—disentangling himself from Sans. Pausing beside the bed, he tugged the blankets up around his brother, smiling a little when Sans clutched the blankets to his chest and burrowed into the warm spot Papyrus had just vacated. Smoothing a hand over Sans’ skull, Papyrus remembered his promise but set it aside for the time being. When he was fully healed, he would entertain the possibility more seriously.

The spiderling tugged on his pant leg, and Papyrus sighed, again grabbing the coin from his pocket. He clenched his fingers around it and rolled it between his fingers, following the spiderling down the hall. It led him to the kitchens, where Muffet leaned against the counter, two pairs of arms crossed over her torso. “Sit,” she ordered.

Papyrus didn’t have to ask where. She’d pulled a chair out from the kitchen table, and he obediently sat down. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and clenched his hands together. “ ’m sorry,” he started, “I fucked up.”

“Did you now?” she asked, striding forward. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, dearie?”

He flinched. Her voice was saccharine as ever. No trace of disappointment or judgment. Nothing to allude to her true mood. Papyrus knew her well enough to recognize the deceit, though. “Told ya,” he said, “Fucked up. Got caught. Had ta—“ He jumped when she gripped his shoulders. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said the gesture was meant to be comforting. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he continued, “Had ta get outta there. Fast as I could.”

She squeezed his shoulders while the other pair of hands slipped down his ribs. “Now, now, dearie. Don’t skimp on the details. Ahuhuhu~ I want to know _exactly_ what happened.”

He swallowed, drawing in on himself. “I.” His sockets squeezed shut and he dropped his head. “…I warned a sweet-piece what was comin’. Told ‘er ta get out while she could.”

A heavy sigh above his head, but she didn’t curl her claws around his bones or backhand him or even grab him by the jaw. “And?”

He blinked, looking up at her. “…I…got…caught?” He honestly wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear. Smiling benevolently, she curled two hands around his skull— _stars above that was nerve-wracking_ —and leaned close.

“The _bomb_ , Papyrus,” she said slowly, still smiling. “What happened. To. The _bomb_.”

With her gripping his skull like that, he couldn’t shake his head. “I. I dunno, boss. I mean. I didn’ have time ta set it. An’ I couldn’t grab it ‘fore I ran. Like I said, I was in a hurry. Wasn’ exactly takin’ a leisurely stroll through their—“

She slammed his head against the table, stunning him briefly. “Oh, Papyrus. What am I going to do with you?” she asked, grabbing his hands and spinning magic webbing around them. Binding them together. He started to struggle, but she yanked the chair out from under him, dumping him on the floor. With no way to catch himself, he landed hard on his shoulder.

He tried to struggle to his feet, but she aimed a solid kick at his ribs and spine. He spasmed, his already injured ribs protesting the violent treatment. Planting a foot on his lumbar vertebrae, she pinned him to the floor. With a snap of her fingers, spiderlings emerged. They grabbed at his legs, and he tried to kick them away, kick them off, but they clung to his femurs and shins. They summoned gobs of sticky magic and spun it into thread, using it to tie his legs together at the knees and ankles. Another wad of webbing stuck his elbows together, forcing his shoulders back. Leaving him helpless and exposed. Panic tightened his chest and set his soul spinning, but he focused on a spot on the ground ahead of him, trying to keep his breathing even and steady. “Boss?” he asked, ashamed of the waver in his voice.

She pulled her foot off, confident he couldn’t worm away, and crouched beside his head. Planting one elbow on her knee, she propped her chin on her fist and regarded him calmly. “What is it, dearie?”

Still struggling to keep his breathing steady, he asked, “Did somethin’ happen? I mean, I know I fucked up, but uh, this seems a little…much, doncha think?”

Smiling gently, she leaned forward, hooking her fingers around his cervical vertebrae. Another hand patted his cheekbone, claws catching on a socket. He swallowed hard, trying not to flinch. “Ahuhuhu~. ‘Did something happen?’ he asks. Oh, dearie. Are you really so naïve? They _retaliated_.” She leaned forward, cupping his face between her hands. “They knew who you were, knew who you worked for, knew your intentions—and you left a packet of explosives behind. You didn’t just fail to do your job; you gave them everything they needed to blow one of my own parlors to hell.”

His sockets went wide. “Which one?” he asked, thinking of the work rosters, of the people working the floor. Sans was his family, but the gang was a kind of extended family. They looked after their own. ~~They were the dregs of society, after all. No one else was going to look after them~~. “Is everyone okay?”

She sighed and smiled sadly. Then she dropped him all at once and hooked a hand around his arm. Being a skeleton, he was not an especially heavy monster, and she had no trouble dragging him down the hall. “This is at least partially my fault,” she said, pushing open the hall door. “I’ve been too gentle in my handling. Too Merciful.” He shoved down his reflexive laughter, knowing that laughing would only make things worse—so much worse—for him. Pausing in front of the bedroom he shared with Sans, she said, “Honestly, I think my first mistake was letting you keep that sweet-piece.” His mind stuttered over the phrase, confused until he realized—

“Sans ain’t a sweet-piece,” he growled, shifting his arms and hands. Trying to find any kind of give, any kind of weakness in the webbing.

She sighed heavily. “Oh, dearie.” She sounded honestly tired. As if they’d had this argument too many times before. “The moment you asked me to keep him in the bakery, away from the less legal side of the business, I should have sold him off or crushed his skull. It really would have been a kindness in the long run.”

Papyrus’ soul went cold. No. No! _No._ He renewed his struggles, pulling on Muffet’s arm. With a sigh, she simply dropped him, allowing him to kick and twist and try to get free. Certain he was caught. Completely unconcerned about him. “Don’t worry, dearie.” She pushed open the door, revealing an empty bed where Sans had once rested. “I’ve taken care of it. Rectified my past mistake. Well. Not personally, of course. But it’s been taken care of.”

Papyrus stared, his body locked and limbs frozen. He couldn’t even form a denial or a coherent question. His soul stuttered, lurching sickly. Then she was dragging him down the hall again, and he started screaming, “WHERE IS HE? WHAT’D YA DO TA HIM? WHAT DID—“

Hefting him up, she tossed him into a wall, then pinned him there and ground his cheek into the stone. “You’re getting a bit uppity, dearie. I think it’s high time that I remind you who’s boss around here.”

She shoved open the door to what she called her work room and pushed him inside. A towering Knight Knight caught him. “Strip him,” she ordered, and an Astigmatism starting cutting away his clothes. He tried to jerk out of the Knight Knight’s hold, but his arms and legs were still bound. He was helpless. A fact reinforced when the Knight Knight purposefully looked him over and ran a mockingly gentle finger down his bare sternum.

“Pretty bone-man,” she rumbled, voice deep and sonorous.

Unable to control his breathing any longer, his chest heaved and his soul quivered in fear. Looking at Muffet, he said, “Please.” His voice shook, sounding weak and pathetic. “Whatever ya want. I’ll do _anything_ ya ask. Jus’ leave Sans outta it. Please. _Please_.”

She smiled sweetly and stepped close. “Oh, dearie.” She cupped his face in her hands. “It’s already done. He’s gone, and I already own you. You have nothing to bargain with.”

His features hardened and he snarled at her, calling on an untapped well of anger. “Ya think I’ll still listen ta ya? If ya hurt Sans, then I’m gonna slit yer throat and feed yer dust ta yer fuckin’ pets, _dearie_.”

She laughed and forced a kiss on him, though he tried to turn away. He tried to bite down when her tongue invaded his mouth, but her fingers were hooked through his jaw, holding his mouth open for her leisure. Pulling back, she smiled and said, “We’ll see about that, _sweetheart_.” She looked over his shoulder at the Knight Knight. “Break him.” Then she dropped her hands and turned away, shutting the door behind her.

He stared at the door, his soul twisting. The Knight Knight pulled back just enough to loop a length of rope through the gap between Papyrus’s ulnae and radii and knot it around his wrists. She stepped away, leaving him to try and balance with his legs tied together. Looking up, he followed the rope’s path through a hook in the ceiling. He didn’t need to look behind him to know the other end was tied to a loop set in the wall.

A hard, sudden yank on the rope forced his arms up behind his back. He groaned, clenching his teeth. “They don’ bend that way!” he snarled, forced to bow forward so that his arms could stretch toward the hook in the ceiling. Another yank forced him onto his toes, precariously balanced.

The ache in his shoulders was bad enough, but the position he’d been forced into left him painfully exposed. Bent at the waist, arms extended over his shoulder blades, barely balanced on the balls of his feet. He couldn’t shield himself. Couldn’t even turn away or try to escape what was coming. They could do literally anything to him, and he wouldn’t be able to stop them. Panic gripped him, his ribs rapidly rising and falling as he drew air into his soul.

The Knight Knight pulled away from the wall and stepped close, gliding feathered fingers over his ribs. He twitched away, but that only caused him to stumble, his body weight resting entirely on his shoulders for a brief moment. “Ya ready ta get started?” the Astigmatism asked, looking at the Knight Knight. She trilled and stepped away, grabbing a baseball bat from the wall. She hefted it a few times, testing the weight. Papyrus watched, paralyzed and disbelieving.

He’d been beaten before. With fists. With magic. With a steel pipe. But he’d always had his hands and feet free. He’d had a _chance_ ; he’d been able to fight back or flee. Not this time. He was completely dependent on their Mercy. On Muffet’s Mercy. And he well knew that she had very little of that to spare. Part of him wanted to beg, sure that he could convince them that this wasn’t necessary. The larger part of him knew that was foolish. Knew that they’d only lose respect for him if he tried to plead. So he shut his sockets and braced himself, determined not to speak, not to scream, not to make a sound. At least he could deny them—deny _her_ —that satisfaction.

He managed to keep to that vow when they struck him along his bruised ribs, only grunting in pain. He wavered a bit, when they broke the first bone. He managed to clench his teeth and quiet his whimpers, though. Another strike to that area earned an aborted cry, but he cut himself off quickly. When they struck the right side of his face, shattering his socket and cheekbone, he could no longer silence himself, and another blow to his already cracked skull finally wrung a scream from him.

It wasn’t the most important promise he’d broken that day.

 

When they were finished with him, congealed magic and marrow slicked the floor. His feet had long since given out beneath him, leaving his metatarsals to drag through the gold magic. The dull ache of his shoulders had given way to a constant burn, but it was nothing compared to the rest of his shattered body. Everything hurt, from his littlest toe—stepped on by the Knight Knight—to his bruised pelvis and his shattered skull. Trying to repress the pain was futile. So much of his magic was being fed into simply holding his body together that he didn’t dare draw on anything to numb the pain.

A clawed hand took him by the chin, and he whimpered when the hand bent his head back. The magic flooding his skull was heavy, and he could feel it shifting sickeningly. His cervical vertebrae protested, too, stiff from holding this position for what felt like hours. “Oh, dearie,” a familiar voice said, though he didn’t bother trying to place it. “Your poor face.” A claw pressed into his shattered cheek, causing the bone fragments to shift in the matrix holding them in place. He whined, nauseous from the pain.

“please,” he whimpered. “ _please_.”

He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for. Death? That might be nice. It wouldn’t hurt anymore, at least. But— _(A small body pressed into his side. Warm blue eyes, stars dancing in their depths. “Brother?”)_ —no. He couldn’t die. He had a job to do. He shut his working socket, swallowing past the nausea as he forced himself to focus on the figure in front of him. Multiple black eyes glittered back at him, framed by violet skin. “boss,” he said, trying to gather himself, “ ‘m sorry. ‘m sorry.” He shook his head to clear it, and instantly regretted it. “whaddaya wan’ from me? what can i do fer ya?” Anything to make it stop. Anything to get free.

She studied him, searching his single visible eyelight. “How are you feeling, dearie?”

He chuckled, even though it made the fragmented edges of his ribs grind against each other. “not so bad,” he managed as congealed magic dripped down his face and onto her hand. “i don’ think my left femur has more’n a hairline fracture. so there’s that.”

She smiled, laughing quickly. Straightening, she released his chin, and his skull flopped forward. He retched without bringing anything up, the pain so intense it felt like someone had dunked him face-first in ice water. Or like they’d doused him in gasoline and lit him on fire. “Well. I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” She raised her hand to her mouth and licked away the spent magic. Looking behind her, she ordered, “Cut him down.”

He landed in a heap, biting down to keep himself from screaming again. He couldn’t silence the high-pitched whine that escaped him though. Still, they’d let him down. It was over. He just needed to rest and eat and heal up, then he could find out what happened to Sans. Everything would be fine. He just needed to convince Muffet that he was sorry, just do whatever she asked, then he could steal some time away and find Sans. ~~And then they could leave. They could leave just like he said and he’d keep his promise to Sans they wouldn’t need to talk about it though they’d just leave and everything would be~~ —

He twitched a little as some of the spiderlings started chewing at the magic binding his arms and legs. The webbing released all at once and he sighed in relief, though he couldn’t bring himself to actually flex his wrists or roll his ankles. Just knowing that he was free, that this was _over_ was enough to nearly bring him to tears. Something slid along the floor, scrapping against the stone. He managed to shift his head just enough to make out a black trunk.

His soul dropped. Not over yet, then. Muffet likely had another trick up her sleeve. He could handle it, though. No matter what it was. He could get through this. He could. He _could_.

Swallowing tightly, he watched the Astigmatism open the trunk and waited to see what he would pull out of it. To his surprise, though, he just stepped back, looking at the Knight Knight. Muffet motioned to her, and she obediently scooped Papyrus up off of the floor. The sudden movement made his good socket shutter closed as he whimpered futilely. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize what was going on. But by the time she started to lower him into the trunk, he understood. He fought her as best he could, but it was a pathetic attempt. Even his protests were weak—he’d already screamed himself hoarse, and now his voice was almost completely blown out.

The Knight Knight swung his legs into the trunk first, then clamped a hand over the back of his neck and shoved his head down, forcing him to fold into a fetal position. He tried to grip the sides of the trunk, but she brought a fist down on his fingers and he cried out, pulling the appendage in and tucking it against his chest. Before he could summon the courage or the strength to try fighting back again, the lid slammed shut, leaving him in near-complete darkness. Air holes had been cut into the sides of the trunk, allowing in a little light.

Already, his soul was starting to pulse and pound, while his breathing hitched. He pressed up, pushing his shoulder blades into the trunk’s lid, but that only sent a bolt of pain down his spine. The trunk didn’t even creak. Panic gripped him but he couldn’t catch his breath to scream.

Fingers drummed against the lid of the trunk, and a shadow passed over one of his airholes. He blinked, realizing through the fog of panic that a single black eye was peering in at him. “I think you need a little quiet time to reflect, dearie. I’ll let you out when I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

Outside the trunk, he heard the shuffle of footsteps and the click of coins as Muffet paid the Astigmatism and the Knight Knight for their services. Then the light went out and the door clicked closed, leaving him alone. In the dark. In pain. Crumpled into a fucking _box_. Panic gave way to rage, his LV agitated. Despite the pain, he briefly tried to fight his way out. He tried, again, to force the box open, pressing his back against the lid and his legs against the floor. Then he started picking at the air holes, trying to widen them. It was no use. The box was made of sturdy material, and he didn’t dare use his magic.

Trying to keep his breathing steady, he forced himself to focus on Sans. When he got out—because he would, eventually, get out—he would find Sans, find out what happened. Muffet wouldn’t have killed him outright. Papyrus was ~~almost~~ certain of that. She was too much a businesswoman to simply kill a perfectly good sweet-piece when she could sell him instead. And as much as that idea made his soul roil, sold was better than dead. There were ways to track such sales. Papyrus could find him. He just had to bide his time. When Muffet let him out, he just had to say what she wanted to hear, do whatever she asked of him. It shouldn’t be too hard. He’d been doing it for years.

He shut his working socket and let out a slow breath. It was fine. He was fine. It was just a box. He just had to be patient. She’d let him out. She had to let him out. ~~Right~~? He just. Had to wait.

He inhaled slowly, trying not to wince when his broken ribs expanded. Trying not to shudder when he shifted a little and hit the side of the trunk. He was fine. He was _fine_.

Another slow exhalation.

This was fine.

He could do this.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

He didn’t think about being trapped.

He didn’t think about the steady drip of spent magic.

_Breathe in._

He didn’t think about the congealed mana slicking the floor of the trunk. Pooling there.

_Breathe out._

_Think about Sans._

_Think about escape._

_Think about_ freedom _._

_Breathe in._

He could do this.

_Breathe out._

He just.

_Breathe in._

Had to wait.

That’s all.

_Breathe out._

 

He lost track of time in the dark and the haze of pain and panic. His soul ached for food. At this point, he would have sacrificed a finger for one of the bakery’s donuts. He’d have given his whole arm for an apple. His limbs first went stiff, then they went numb. Then a low burn settled into his joints, forced to hold this position for…hours? Days? He couldn’t tell. The light never changed. No one came to check on him. He tried counting his breaths to keep track of passing time, but he lost count quickly. He tried to keep himself entertained. Told himself half-remembered stories from childhood. Whispered nursery rhymes into the dark. Anything more complicated slipped away from him, lost in the fog brought on by pain and hunger.

Trying to find a semi-comfortable position so he could get some rest, he pressed his forehead into the bottom of the trunk, but the gelatinous slide of spent magic slicking his nasal ridge caused him to jerk away instinctively. His spine made contact with the trunk’s lid, sending a renewed jolt of pain down his back while his joints protested the sudden movement. Trying to settle back into a fetal position, he exhaled hard, sockets burning. No tears came, his LV high enough to have stolen the ability to cry. Time passed. He might have drowsed, never more than half-asleep.

Then, _finally_ , the door opened and light filtered through the air holes. He shut his socket, nearly weeping with relief. He heard someone talking. Repeating “please” over and over again, then realized it was himself and decided he didn’t care, he just wanted _out_ —

The trunk’s lid lifted, and he tried to sit up, tried to climb out, but his body spasmed in response, and he whined in pain. A hand reached in and pulled him up, even as he said, “wait, wait wait waitwaitwait—“ The hand’s owner didn’t listen, and he had to ride out the painful prickling as magic suddenly flooded mana lines that had been choked off by his cramped position.

“Oh, poor thing,” a voice said beside his acoustic meatus as another set of hands reached out to support him. He whimpered, the clawed hands compressing broken bones and the matrix holding them together. “It must be very uncomfortable, staying cooped up like that. Especially for such an energetic monster.” A soothing hand traced down the uninjured side of his face. “Why don’t we walk around the room a little, dearie? See if we can work some of the kinks out, hmm? Ahuhuhu~.”

Stars, that sounded both wonderful and terrible, but he wasn’t really in a position to say no, so he allowed Muffet to help him walk, ignoring the way his injuries protested the treatment. His magic held, though, the matrix strong and stable enough to keep his broken bones together. After a few circuits of the room, his circulation started to return, and the searing pain in his joints and magic nodes had faded to a dull ache. “Do you think you can stand on your own?” she asked.

He swallowed, trying to wet his mouth enough to speak. “i. i don’t think so.”

“Alright. Just lean on me then. I’m going to ask you a few questions.” He nodded. He could do this. Just say whatever she wanted to hear. Agree to anything. Do _whatever_ she asked. And escape at his first opportunity. He could do this.

The first questions were unexpected. “What’s your name?” followed by, “What’s my name?” He stumbled a little when she asked, “What’s your brother’s name?” He wasn’t sure if she wanted honesty, or if she wanted him to say he didn’t have a brother. And when he finally answered, she didn’t react either way, so he didn’t know if he’d passed the test or not. After she’d asked a series of simple questions like that, she finally asked what he’d been waiting for.

“Who owns you?”

“you do.” The answer left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he knew it was the right one.

“And what would you do for me?”

“anything,” he breathed.

She smiled, nodded, kissed him on his uninjured cheek…and shoved him back into the trunk. He struggled and screamed, but it was futile. He was weak and she was strong and there was nothing he could do nothing he could say nothing he could do nothing he could—

The trunk’s lock clicked shut. The lights went out. The door shut behind her. And Papyrus _keened_.

 

More darkness. More pain. More circling thoughts and cut off stories. More counted breaths and aborted sobs. More thoughts of Sans. Wondering where he was. Wondering if he was alive. Wondering if he was okay. Hoping for the best. ~~Preparing for the worst~~.

He shifted his skull, trying to find a more comfortable position, and heard something rattle inside. Blinking his working socket, he shifted again, trying to work whatever it was out of his skull. It landed on the trunk’s floor and he leaned close, trying to make it out in the dim glow of his remaining eyelight. Blinking, he realized that it was a piece of bone.

It was a piece of _him_. Of his skull.

He swallowed, staring at it. He had the absurd urge to try and fit it back into place, but the edges were already starting to dust. A strangled sound escaped him. It took him a moment to realize that it was a chuckle. Would it grow back, he wondered? Or was he destined to walk around with a small piece of his skull just missing? He giggled at the thought. Then the giggles morphed and shifted into howling laughter.

Minutes later, he could no longer tell if he was laughing or screaming.

 

When she let him out of the box again, he nearly sobbed in relief. He allowed her to lead him around the room again, this time without protest. He didn’t beg either, just kept whispering “thank you”. And when she asked if he could stand, he said that he’d do whatever she wanted. Laughing in delight, she continued to support him, and he clutched her tight. Pressing her mouth against his earhole, she asked her questions again. He didn’t hesitate or stumble, just replied, “whatever you say it is” or “whatever you want” or “whatever you say”.

“Very good,” she purred, pulling away. His soul twisted, and he started to shake, but she pulled a chair over and sat down. “Now come apologize for your behavior. And when you’re done—“ She reached into her inventory and pulled out an apple. “You can have this.” His gaze fixed on the apple, his soul screaming for sustenance. He took a tottering step forward, ignoring the pain that shot up his legs and spine and through his magic nodes. “Ah-ah,” she said, snapping her fingers when she saw the direction of his gaze. “Apology first.” He opened his mouth, ready to say whatever she wanted if he could only have that apple…but he paused. Her legs were parted, and she wasn’t wearing anything underneath her dress.

Oh.

Swallowing, he dropped to his knees in front of her, wincing as pain shot through every bone in his body. It wasn’t so bad, really. Hardly his first time diving for pearls. (A hysterical giggle threatened to bubble up at the euphemism, but he pushed it down. Muffet most certainly would not appreciate laughter right now.) He wished she wouldn’t squeeze his face like that, though. It compressed the matrix holding his skull together, and sent a sharp, stinging pain across his right cheek and socket. At least he knew what she liked. It didn’t take nearly as long as it could have.

As promised, she handed him the apple when she was finished, and he bit into it gratefully. Sweet juice flooded his mouth, mixing with the lingering taste of salt and musk and _spider_. The magic poured into his mana-sapped soul, almost overwhelming at first. He choked a little, pulling back to cough. He recovered soon enough though, and tore back into the apple, not bothering to differentiate between the apple’s flesh and its core and stem. Ignoring too the gentle voice at the back of his mind, informing him that—

 _(“Apple seeds contain cyanide! Isn’t that interesting, Papy?”_ )

He shuddered and swallowed the last bite, licking the juice from his fingers as he looked up at Muffet. Silently hoping for more but not daring to ask. She smiled benevolently. “Good boy,” she said, petting him. “Now.” She leaned forward. “Get back in the trunk.”

His soul churned, and he swallowed tightly, staring up at her. She just smiled sweetly. Breathing hard, he forced himself to his feet, wobbling unsteadily. Every step toward the trunk was torture. It seemed to loom in front of him, but he only hesitated a moment before stepping into it. Spent magic smeared under his feet. He folded his legs underneath him, shaking so badly his bones rattled.

He didn’t move, hardly dared to breathe as she crossed the room, each step like a whip crack in his mind. “I’ll come fetch you in the morning,” she said, “and if you’re good, maybe we won’t need to do this again.” He could only nod, shutting his working socket tight as the lid came down and the lock clicked shut.

Helpless.

Utterly. _Helpless_.

There was nothing to fight. Nothing to protest. Nothing to do but…give in.

His body relaxed, and he ignored the congealed magic slicking his bones, ignored the taste of apple and cunt souring in his mouth. His soul rattled, and he blinked in surprise when his base HP dropped.

Well. He hadn’t been expecting that.

His HoPe ticked down slowly but steadily, dropping from the high 1000s to the 900s and then the 800s. It continued to fall as the night passed, sometimes clinging waveringly to four or five points before dropping them. It seemed like the kind of thing that he should have found upsetting, but honestly…he couldn’t really bring himself to do more than note it with detached interested. It hovered at 515 for a long time. Then it dropped again.

…510…505…500…

His soul clenched. Sans would be disappointed in him.

…495…

Sans was always so bright and hopeful. Even surrounded by darkness.

…500…

…Sans wouldn’t want him to give up.

…500…500…505…

Papyrus exhaled hard. He couldn’t give up yet. Not so long as Sans might still be out there. Might be in danger. Might need help. Might need _him_.

…505…510…515…

His HP wavered and oscillated, but by the time morning arrived, it was hovering steadily at 525. Less than half of what he’d started with, but it would be enough. It had to be.

Sans still needed him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Semi-graphic torture. Injuries/gore described in graphic detail. Psychological torture, specifically involving confinement in a tight space. Minor loss of body parts. Non-explicit forced oral sex. Mental breaking. Loss of hope/HoPe.


	5. Sins of the Past, pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans is having a bad time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning in the endnotes. This chapter is not as disturbing as the previous chapter, but it still contains disturbing elements. Please read the warning if there are themes in fiction that you find upsetting.

Sans wasn’t sure what was happening. A pair of spiderlings had woken him up and ushered him out into the hall. He’d followed them willingly enough, not sure what they wanted from him but aware that they would be on an errand from Muffet. He hadn’t even questioned it when they lead him outside. He recognized the monsters waiting for him too, by sight if not by name.

The Spider was one of Muffet’s cousins, he thought. Or a sister. She came by the bakery every morning to pick up a tray of donuts for her stand. And other, less legal substances, but Sans pretended not to know about that. The other was a Madjick that came in once or twice a week. He seemed fond of the chocolate croissants. Sans had always thought he was nice enough. Polite, if a little flighty and overly flirtatious. Both of them were part of Muffet’s inner circle, so Sans had no reason to distrust them. No reason to think that they would wish him harm.

Not until gold was trading hands and he was being pushed into the arms of an unfamiliar Washua did he realize that maybe he should have tried to escape a long time ago.

It was too late now, though. He tried to fight, but his control hand was immobilized almost immediately—later, he would realize that they’d probably been told to secure his hands—and his clothing was cut away. “No!” he screamed, trying to worm away, “No, stop! _Please!_ ” It didn’t help. They didn’t listen to him. He found himself stuffed into a tub of lukewarm water while the Washua scrubbed him clean. Embarrassingly clean. Sans struggled and tried to scramble away, but that only got him dunked beneath the water’s surface. He kicked his legs while soapy water rushed into his sockets, singeing his eyelights and flooding his skull. He shook his head, air bubbles drifting from his mouth and ribcage. He tossed his head and shoulders, desperately trying to reach the water’s surface only a few inches above his head. But the hands held him securely, solidly. He wasn’t going to be getting free anytime—

They brought him up to the surface, and he gasped loudly, but before he could take another desperate breath, he was plunged back beneath the surface. They held him down again, waiting even longer this time, before finally allowing him to take a quick, frantic breath. Then he was back under the water, soul aching for air and ribcage constricted. Just when he was certain they were going to let him drown, that he was going to die like this, they drew him up and allowed him to catch his breath. “Now, now,” someone said over his head, “Stop fighting and this might actually be pleasant for you.”

Shaking, he looked up at the frowning Vulkin standing far enough away to limit the possibility of being splashed. The Washua waited for Sans to bow his head before continuing. After that, he allowed them to draw him out of the tub, shaking despite the warm Hotland air. A metal cuff was fitted over his control hand, completely disabling his combat magic. He tried, briefly, to cover himself, but the Washua pinched his floating rib, and the Vulkin snapped at him, “I thought you were going to behave yourself, sweet-piece.”

“I’m not—“ he started to say, but the words stuck in his mouth. He was, though, wasn’t he? This was hardly the first time he’d been called that, but the slur had never had any teeth before. It had always been nothing but that—a word, a slur, a thing that happened to other people. Papy had always been there to—

_Papy!_

Sans’ soul went ice-cold. Papy would never have allowed this to happen. Not if he was at all capable of fighting for his brother. Which meant…. Sans swallowed, barely reacting when the Vulkin tugged him along. Muffet wouldn’t have dusted him…would she? He said the job had gone wrong, but she couldn’t possibly have been angry enough to kill him. Right? Sans’ soul dropped as he struggled to calm his breathing. No. _No._ Papy couldn’t be dead. He _couldn’t be_ —

His chest hitched, and the Vulkin leaned down to look him in the sockets, cupping his face between her warm hands. “Easy there,” she said, softening marginally. Her words only caused his breathing to hitch again as tears gathered in his sockets. She sighed heavily and wiped his tears away. “None of that,” she said firmly. “This isn’t so bad.” Her grip tightened. “You’re one of the lucky ones, sweet-piece. Others will face a much harsher fate.”

His swallowed tightly, thinking again about Papy. Had she…had Muffet sold him? No. _No._ Surely not. That was just something she said to rattle them. _(“What a pair you two make. A sweet-piece and a slam-piece. I wonder what kind of price I could get for selling you as a matched set. Would it be enough to make up for this little fuck up, I wonder? Ahuhuhu~.)_ It was an empty threat, right? “Please,” he whispered, “Is?” He swallowed. “Is m-my brother is here too?”

The Vulkin blinked slowly. Then she shook her head, planting a hand on his upper back and propelling him forward. “I don’t know and I don’t care,” she said.

He dug his feet in, looking back at her. “Please!” he said, voice cracking, “C-can you just check? H-he should be easy to f-find. He’s a s-skeleton. Just like m-me. It should only take a m-moment to—“

Before he could finish, she yanked hard on his shoulder and spun him around, landing a ringing slap across his features. He grunted and slipped to his knees, held up only by the grip she had on his upper arm. He looked up at her, sockets narrowed and jaw clenched. Tears coursed down his cheeks, spoiling the effect of his bared fangs.

The craggy rock that composed the Vulkin’s face shifted, the crevice that composed her mouth widening until Sans could see the magma welling at the back of her mouth. She took a step back, releasing Sans. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“ Sans blinked, confused. Until a hand settled on his shoulder. He jumped in surprise and turned to see a familiar box-shaped figure. His soul clenched, and he pulled in on himself.

Mettaton.

The robot turned his screen toward Sans, the boxy body tilting slightly as he surveyed the small skeleton. A gloved hand came up to lift Sans’ chin. “Are you. Damaged?” the stilted, robotic voice sent a shiver down Sans’ spine. Slowly, Sans shook his head, body trembling. Mettaton allowed one hand to fall away from Sans’ chin, then he turned to regard the Vulkin. She’d dropped to her knees and was shaking so hard that lava was starting to spill down her sides. “You are. Lucky,” he informed her. Just as she was starting to look hopeful, though, he casually lifted a hand and fired a series of magic constructs at her, each shaped like a nut or a bolt.

She cried out, the attacks dropping her HP by half even as Mettaton turned away, dismissing her from his mind. “Come with. Me, darling,” the robot said, planting a companionable hand on Sans’ spine. All thoughts fled Sans’ mind. His attention fixed solely on the hand on his upper back. “I do. Apologize,” Mettaton said, guiding Sans down the corridor. “It is. So hard. Finding good. Help. These days.” Then he made a strange, robotic sound that Sans eventually realized was supposed to be laughter.

Was that…? Did he think that was a joke?

Smiling nervously, Sans tried to force a laugh, but it came out like a wheeze. Everyone had heard of Mettaton. Among the nobles and classier monsters, he was primarily known as an entertainer, famous for his television serials and his brand-name products. In the back alleys of Hotland, however, he had a much darker reputation. Not as a mere gang leader; no matter what the king’s charter might say, Mettaton owned Hotland, even if he was largely content to let it run itself. So long as none of the inhabitants interfered with him or his business, of course.

Pushing open a door, Mettaton lead him inside and pointed to a small dais. “Stand there. Darling.” Still shaking, Sans obeyed. A cat monster stood off to the side, looking bored and smoking a particularly cheap brand of cigarette. Metatton stood before the dais and studied Sans. “Twirl.” Breathing shallowly, Sans did as ordered, hyper-aware of the eyes on his naked pelvis and spine.

The cat monster raised a brow-bone, then whistled softly. “Geeze, MT. There ain’ a mark on ‘im.”

The robot made a considering noise. “The Spider. Did say. He was. A prime. Piece. Stop.” It took Sans a moment to realize that Mettaton had said the last to him. “Now. What skills. Do you. Have?”

Knees shaking, Sans looked up. “S-skills?”

“Yes. What are. You good. At? What do. You do?”

Shivering, Sans looked to the cat monster, but he was busy staring at his claws with apparent fascination. “I-I. Um.” He looked at the ground, crossing his arms over his chest. “I can cook. B-baking is what I’m best at.” Metatton snapped his fingers, and the cat monster starting scribbling something on the clipboard he held.

“What else?”

Breath coming fast and shallow, Sans said, “I. Um. I d-don’t know.”

“Can you. Sing? Play an. Instrument? Dance, perhaps? What are you. _Good_ at. Darling?”

He thought of Papy again. Thought of the way he would pace and pace and pace the floor at night when he was wound up and couldn’t settle. Thought of pulling his brother to the bed and hugging him tight, singing softly or telling him stories until the larger skeleton finally went limp in his arms. Asleep or at least halfway there. “I. I can sing. A little.”

“Very good,” the robot said approvingly, while the cat monster scribbled down more notes. “What else?”

The interview seemed to go on forever. It briefly dipped into territory that made Sans blush a dark blue, but when Mettaton realized he had no experience in that area, he made that strange laughing sound again and, turning to the cat, said simply, “A virgin. We are. In luck.” Eventually, he seemed to run out of questions. “Get his. Measurements. Dress him. He seems. Placid enough. I think. No need. For us to. Train him. A private transaction. Would be best. His new. Owners can. Break him in. Themselves.”

“Uh-huh. Will do, MT.” The cat monster was looking at his claws again.

Mettaton turned to Sans and lifted his chin again. Standing on the dais, Sans was almost as tall as the robot. “You’ll be. Fine, darling. I like to think. Of myself. Not as a. Businessmonster. Well. Not just. As a businessmonster. But as a. Matchmaker.” He pet Sans, fingers tracing his coronal suture. “I’ll find. A good home. For you, darling. Don’t fret. With your. Unique physique. It shouldn’t. Be a problem.” He traced a finger down Sans’ sternum, then ghosted his fingers over his ribcage. “Lovely bones,” he murmured, mostly to himself. Then his screen tilted and he made that strange, electronic laughing sound again. “In fact. I might just. Keep you. For myself.”

Sans recognized that it was said as a compliment. He knew that. He knew that he was supposed to be flattered, to maybe blush and duck his head. But the words just made him sick. Not wanting to offend the other monster, he managed a weak smile, though. Mettaton patted his head, then turned to leave.

After he was gone, the cat monster turned to Sans and said, “Okay, squirt, arms out ta the sides. Lemme measure ya.” He got close enough that Sans could feel his breath against the back of his cervical vertebrae. “An’ don’ try anything funny. Boss doesn’ want ‘is merchandise damaged, but I got plenty ‘a ways ta hurt ya without leaving a mark.” Whiskers brushed against Sans’ skull as the cat monster leaned close. “An’ don’ tempt me. I ain’ exactly got a good track record with customer service.”

Already cowed, Sans meekly obeyed the orders issued, shaking hard.

 

 

It could have been worse. Much, much worse. He had a small cell to sleep in. Clean clothes. A blanket. Heck, he even had a pillow. It was more than he would have expected. He should be grateful. To some extent, in fact, he was grateful. He wondered where Papy was. If he was okay. He hoped Muffet hadn’t hurt him. Pulling the blanket close, he huddled in on himself. Everything was going to be fine. He just needed to stay positive. Papy was _fine_. He’d always been Muffet’s favorite. Surely she wouldn’t—

Sans closed his sockets, holding his breath as he struggled not to cry.

_Please be okay, Papy. Please. Please be okay. Don’t let her hurt you. Don’t let her. Don’t let her—_

The first night in the cell, Sans really didn’t sleep. He drowsed the next day, too exhausted to remain awake. His dreams were disjointed and unpleasant, tormented by images of Papyrus in danger. Papyrus _hurt_. Papyrus being…being…. Soul-sick and weary, Sans ran out of tears sometime around mid-day. He didn’t stir when a monster came by to deliver food. He didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to move.

He should have known he wouldn’t be allowed to wallow for long. Muffet certainly wouldn’t have stood for that behavior; he had no reason to believe his captors would either. So, he didn’t fight back when an unfamiliar Washua opened his cell door the next day—was it the next? Or the day after?—and pulled him from the bed. He stripped him down and scrubbed his bones with peroxide until they gleamed brilliantly. Sans only tried to protest when he reached for his pelvic inlet and ilia. The Washua looked up at him plaintively and said, “Please. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

He spoke so softly, his voice so full of sorrow and regret, that Sans could only shut his sockets and meekly allow him to finish doing his job. He thought that might be the end of it, but after the Washua put the peroxide away, he pulled out a polishing cloth and a vial of scented oil. He massaged the oil into Sans’ bones, making sure he didn’t miss so much as a spot.

Sans wasn’t stupid. “W-what’s happening?” he asked, voice quavering. The Washua didn’t answer. Sans’ bones started shaking. “Why did they send you here to—?”

“Please,” the Washua said again, not looking up at Sans. “Don’t make this difficult for me.” It was the opposite of reassuring, but Sans stopped asking. His bones rattled, though, and the Washua took pity on him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “They sold you. You’re being sent to the palace.”

Sans’ soul dropped. “A-already?”

“The boss has connections, and he doesn’t like to hold on to inventory—“ Sans flinched, and the Washua muttered another apology. Neither of them spoke as the Washua finished oiling his cervical vertebrae. He spread a series of dark blue ribbons out on the bed, all of them of varying lengths and thicknesses. Sans couldn’t really guess their purpose, until the Washua started wrapping them around his bones.

The ribbons were soft, and in another situation, the slide of fabric over bone and cartilage might have actually been pleasant. As it was, though, it felt like the material was leaving a lingering trail over his sacrum and spine and pelvis. He suspected that he would be able to sense the phantom touch long after the ribbons had been removed. An invisible brand only he could see or sense.

Just as the Washua was finishing up, the door banged open and Mettaton rolled inside. His screen tilted, apparently nodding in approval. Then, unexpectedly, he reached forward and tugged lightly on the ribbon tied around Sans’ pubic symphysis. “Perfect, darling. He looks. Like a present. Waiting to. Be opened.”

The words were like a spear to his soul. Sans whimpered, reaching forward to try to shield himself, even though Mettaton’s fingers were already prodding at the rim of his pelvic inlet. “P-please,” he whispered, barely taking note of the Washua’s departure.

Mettaton’s screen tilted. “Yes, darling? What is it?”

“I-I want t-to go back to m-my brother. P-please. He n-needs me. And I n-need him. P-please?”

“Oh, darling. Of course. You can go. Back to. Your brother.”

Sans’ soul soared, disbelief and hope making him light-headed. “Really?” he asked, stepping close. “You mean that?” Hope made his eyelights flicker around the edges, turning briefly into stars.

“Certainly. Does he. Have the G?”

“W-what?”

Mettaton leaned close, taking his hand away from Sans’ pelvis and tilting his chin up. “It’s a free. Market, darling. I am open. To all offers. But of course. He’d have to. Outbid. The king.”

The.

King.

Sans thought he was going to be sick. “I.” His voice faded out. What could he possibly say?

Mettaton patted his cheek. “Come along. Darling. Put this on.” He shook out a sheer blue robe, swirls of gold lining the cuffs and borders. “There. Now you look. Like a present. Fit for. A prince.” He tied the sash off in a perfect bow, arranging the robe so a broad swathe of ribcage was visible between the lapels. “Let’s go then. Darling. Wouldn’t want. To be late. Now would. We?”

Meekly, Sans allowed Mettaton to guide him out into the hall. The robe was a comfort, even if it did little to actually conceal his bones. There was an enclosed rickshaw waiting for them, accompanied by a Knight Knight to pull it. Mettaton urged him inside, and when Sans felt the Knight Knight’s gaze on his barely-concealed bones, he hurried to obey. The ride through Hotland and New Home was not nearly long enough. Sans’ bones rattled, and he felt lightheaded and soul-sick. Like he wasn’t getting enough air. Mettaton’s hand on his lumbar spine was not helping matters.

“Are you. Nervous, darling?” Mettaton asked suddenly, his robotic voice loud in the rickshaw’s close quarters. Sans could only look up at him, sockets wide and eyelights shrunk to pinpricks. Mettaton’s electronic laughter filled the cab. “How cute~.” His screen shifted briefly, flickering to show a ^_^ emoticon.

Sans swallowed tightly as anger threaded through his panic. It wasn’t ‘cute’. He didn’t feel ‘cute’. He felt dizzy and nauseous and he didn’t want this he didn’t want any part of this he just wanted to go home and not be here next to this boxy robot and stuck in this cab hearing the whirr and whine of machinery and trying not to cry and—

His breathing shuddered, tears pricking the corners of his sockets no matter how hard he tried to swallow them down. Never in his life had he felt so helpless. His control hand was cuffed, and he was so _small_. Without his magic, what good was he? Even with it, though, he wasn’t nearly strong enough to take on someone like Mettaton. What hope did he have against the king, of all monsters? Only now was it really starting to sink in that he was never going to see Papyrus again. Probably never going to find out if he was okay. If he was even alive.

Dark blue tears rolled down his cheekbones, and a handkerchief pressed against each cheek. “No tears. Darling. They’re bad for. Your complexion.”

Unsurprisingly, that observation didn’t help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: implied sexual slavery, drowning/mild waterboarding, depression, anxiety, unwilling nudity, non-consensual touching.


	6. Sins of the Past, pt. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muffet checks on her pet, and Twist tries to pull himself together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THIS CHAPTER IS EXTREMELY DISTURBING. PLEASE READ THE DETAILED TRIGGER WARNING IN THE ENDNOTES IF THERE ARE ANY THEMES YOU HAVE TROUBLE DEALING WITH IN FICTION.**
> 
>  
> 
> Seriously, I think this is probably even worse than pt. 2. Please be cautious. Take a break if you need to, or just skip this chapter entirely.

Muffet checked the time, then leaned back in her chair, sipping tea. Five more minutes. Then she’d let him out. Glancing at the cold ovens, she sighed. She’d gotten too used to having the sweet-piece around; she’d have to start getting up early again, if she wanted to keep the bakery running. Either that or she’d need to hire someone or train up one of her runners. Papyrus certainly wasn’t suited to the task. She’d shut it down for the past few days, too busy running her empire to be concerned with the bakery, but she’d need to re-open it soon if she wanted to maintain her cover.

Ah, well. That was a concern for another day. For now, she needed to make sure her pet had learned his lesson. Taking a last sip of tea, she stood and brushed crumbs from her hands. She made her way down the hall and unlocked the door to her workshop. The trunk sat in the center, exactly where she’d left it. She smiled, fangs and mouthparts glinting as she imagined her pet curled up inside. She’d been tempted to sell him alongside his brother—a sweet-piece and a slam-piece, for a buyer’s many needs. A matching set would have netted more money than selling either of them alone, after all. But she was glad she’d ultimately decided against it. Just remembering the desperation on his face as he knelt before her was making her wet.

Opening the trunk, she reached in and drew him up by his cervical vertebrae. “How did you sleep, dearie~?” she asked, one hand cupping his chin. Her gaze fixed on the spreading cracks across the right side of his face. The socket was so damaged the eyelight couldn’t be lit and a small chunk was missing from the rim of his socket.

He was beautiful like this. Broken and beaten. _~~Stars she wanted to press and press and press until that half of his skull broke apart entirely nothing but dust and spent magic and a hollow space where his face should be~~_. She repressed the urge. She didn’t want to risk his eyesight, after all. He wasn’t just a toy—he was a tool as well, and she needed him to be able to do his job. Even if the idea of shifting the pieces of his shattered face—reshaping him physically as well as mentally—made her inner channel clench in anticipation.

She contented herself with pressing her thumb into the healing matrix, smiling when he flinched. Petting his uninjured cheekbone, she continued, “Not well, I suppose, but you’ve learned your lesson and you’re going to be a good boy for me now, aren’t you?”

His functional socket closed in relief and he said, “yeah, boss. ‘ll be good. promise.” His voice was raspy and hoarse—weak from magic loss and low HP.

“I know you will,” she said, leaning down to kiss him. She hooked her fingers through his jaw, forcing it open to swipe her tongue over his mandible and palate. She savored the taste of spent magic, licking her fangs clean as she pulled away. “But let’s get you healed, hmmm? You’re useless to me like this.”

Wrapping an arm around his ribcage, she hoisted him up, squeezing his cracked ribcage and earning a whimper. His steps were unsteady, and he leaned on her heavily. Inwardly, she sighed, annoyed at the spent magic and marrow staining her clothes. At least the floor would be easy to clean—there was a drain set in the center for just this purpose. She guided him down the hall, asking, “How much EXP do you need to raise your LV, dearie?”

Still out of it, he gave a lopsided shrug, whimpering a little when it caused broken bones to grind together. “not much,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Excellent,” she said cheerfully. Perfect timing for her lesson.

She led him toward the second bedroom, the one he’d shared with the sweet-piece. Pushing it open, she smiled when Papyrus went still beside her. He didn’t fight her or protest when she shoved him forward. He bent double, but he managed to stay standing, covering his mouth to hold in a scream. “I’ve already brought her HP down for you—this shouldn’t give you any trouble at all.”

He didn’t move, just stared at the sweet-piece before him. She struggled futilely against her bonds, curled awkwardly on the floor with her back against the side of the bed. Her wrists were tied to one of the bedposts, and she was teary-eyed and weeping. Snowbunnies were rare in Hotland, and the novelty had made her valuable and interesting for a time. As she aged, her sweetness began to wear away, though. Ordinarily Muffet would transfer her to another brothel, one that catered to a rougher crowd—a sweet-piece without their sweetness was little different from a slam-piece—but she’d decided that this would be a more worthwhile use for her.

Papyrus had always had a softer touch. Even after the LV had layered his soul and stripped him of his gentler nature, that softness had remained. And Muffet allowed it. In part because it made him easier to manipulate, but mostly because it amused her. She was far from amused by this latest fuck-up, however, and she was forced to concede that it was high time to strip him of that lingering softness.

He still refused to move, and leaning down, Muffet put her mouth to his acoustic meatus and gently reminded him, “Papyrus. Dearie~. If you don’t kill her, then I will. And then _you_ can take her place in the brothel. Not everyone wants to lose themselves in something soft and sweet.” Her fingers trailed down his spine and under his pelvis to hook over his pubic symphysis and tug until he whimpered. She grinned, savoring his fear. “You understand?”

Breathing hard, he nodded and straightened. “my magic,” he rasped, “i c-can’t summon anythin’.”

She pinched his pubic symphysis, earning a flinch. “Then use your fists, dearie~.”

He nodded, looking at the ground. Shoulders shaking, he took a shuddering breath and brought his hands up, wrapping them around the Bunny’s neck. She squirmed, fruitlessly trying to fight against her bonds and against him. Muffet leaned against his back, watching the Bunny’s blue eyes start to bulge and water. She wrapped her arms around his broken ribs, one hand still fingering his pubic symphysis while the other stroked his coccyx. He shuddered, turning his head and squeezing his sockets shut.

“Look,” she ordered, turning his head back around, “ _Look_.” He opened his sockets and sobbed brokenly. The sweet-piece’s eyes had lost all focus and her tongue protruded from her mouth, flushed purple with blood. She wasn’t fighting anymore. “Almost there,” she said sweetly, running her hands over his ribcage, “Keep squeezing, dearie~. You’re doing so well.”

His chest hitched, his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps. Muffet held his chin in place, forcing him to watch as the sweet-piece dusted under his hands. He shuddered as EXP flooded his system and, as she’d hoped, raised his LV. His base stats all increased, but more importantly, his health and magic were restored almost instantaneously. He gasped, groaning as his bones healed all at once. Without the proper tending, the sudden restoration left cracks and raised ridges on the bone. Such marks littered his body, but the most prominent scarring was centered around his right socket. A spider-web of cracks extended across his cheekbone and brow, and the eyelight remained unlit.

He’d always been considered handsome. Prior to Muffet’s claim, he’d never had trouble finding bedmates, but these new marks would leave him no reason for vanity. He was broken. Shattered. And everyone could see it written in his features.

She grinned and caught him around the neck, drawing him in before the LV could settle. His remaining eyelight was hazed and unsteady. If she didn’t play this right, he might very well turn on her, but Muffet was cocky enough—or crazed enough—to bring his mouth to hers, playing her hands over his ribs and pelvis. For a moment, he remained unresponsive, then his hands pressed into her shoulders, and it felt like he was going to push her away. She only drew him closer, kissing him more urgently and rubbing his pubic arch and his ribs. She touched on all his erogenous zones, and soon enough, he yielded, magic starting to gather in his pelvic cavity and along the interior of his jaw.

Hiking her skirt up, she wrapped her legs around his hips and ordered into his mouth, “Fuck me.” Still hazed by the sudden influx of LV, he obeyed. The magic in his pelvic cavity shifted into a cock, and he threw her on the bed before thrusting deep. It _hurt_. He was rough and she wasn’t prepared, but Muffet reveled in it. For just a moment, he pulled back, his eyelights sharp and clear. Focused. She gripped him by the back of the skull and stilled his hips, holding him inside.

Pressing her mouth against the side of his head, she hissed into his acoustic meatus, “You’re _mine_ , you piece of shit. Mine to fuck. Mine to break.” She punctuated this by digging her fingers into his sacrum, claws catching on the holes. “You understand me?” she snarled, inner muscles clenching around him, “You’re nothing to me but a cock and a strong arm. If you fail me again, if you start _thinking_ again, then you’ll lose more than your miserable little brother. Am I clear?”

He shuddered, pressing his mouth to her neck and shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, boss. Yer clear.”

“Good,” she said, petting the back of his head as a reward, “Now fuck me like you mean it.” He growled, sinking his teeth into her shoulder and resuming a brutal pace. She only groaned in pleasure, clawing at his broad ribs. Utterly delighted to know that all that power, all that strength was bent to her will.

 

Papyrus stared at the floor in front of him, eyelights unfocused. His wrists were sore—the webbing binding them to the bedpost kept him bent at an awkward angle. He was still naked, spent magic drying on his pelvis. But he wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t. And he wasn’t thinking about the dust caking his legs and tarsals. Certainly wasn’t thinking about the sweet-piece that had occupied this spot only hours before.

_(Blue eyes pleading with him. Soft, vulnerable flesh bruising under his hands.)_

He wasn’t thinking about that. Most especially not the clutch of clawed hands on his bones and the rasp of her voice in his acoustic meatus. Or the press of solid wood on his back and sides and the steady drip of spent magic.

_(“Good boy. Now, get back in the trunk.”)_

He wasn’t thinking about any of that. He forced himself to push it aside—no matter that his mind kept returning to it, like a dog licking at an open wound. He took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly, trying to silence his thoughts.

The one thing he did allow himself to think about was Sans.

He had a promise to fulfill—find a safe place for himself and Sans, out from under Muffet’s thumb. _(“—if you start_ thinking _again—“)_ He shut his sockets, reordered his thoughts. First, he had to gain back his freedom. Not for a moment did he think Muffet was going to keep him bound like this. She’d punished him before. Not like this—she’d never taken it this far—but she’d—

_(“Tell me, Papyrus, exactly how stupid are you?” A hand around his cervical vertebrae, fingers hooked through his jaw. “Answer me!” A swift backhand and the taste of magic in his mouth.)_

—she’d found fault with him before and had never hesitated to make her displeasure known. He knew she’d eventually let him go if he behaved himself. He just had to be patient and follow her orders, ~~whatever those orders might be~~. A hysterical giggle threated to rise up, but he pressed his mouth into his shoulder, trying to hold it back. He took a slow, steady inhale, and allowed himself a moment of dread. It wasn’t going to be easy. He had no doubt that she would demand more of him—

 _(“Apology first.”_ _Kneeling before her and spreading her legs_ — _)_

—but the worst was past. The worst was over. ~~It was over he was out of the box and she wasn’t touching him right now and his HP was replenished and it was over it was over it was~~ — He could handle whatever came next. She no doubt had something planned, but he could handle it. His hands squeezed into fists, stretching the webbing around his wrists. He could. He could take it. He just needed to hold out long enough to get free. That’s all. His sockets squeezed shut and his soul churned, knowing what would be required of him.

 _Be obedient_. He would need to obey her absolutely. He’d need to show her that he was thoroughly broken—completely bent to her will. Not only because it would gain her trust. It would also feed her pride. Maybe he was as stupid as she claimed, but he could see how her arrogance eclipsed her common sense. He could use that.

 _Be patient_. The very idea made him growl—he had no idea what state Sans was in, and he hated the idea of leaving him alone and in peril. But willpower and rage wasn’t going to be enough to overcome this; he couldn’t allow his emotions to rule him. This wasn’t going to be an immediate solution. It wasn’t going to be a matter of days or weeks, but months at the least. He wouldn’t let it stretch past a year, though. He couldn’t—that was a bit too much to stomach.

 _Play stupid_. Not enough to earn her ire, but enough to earn her contempt. If she thought he was too stupid to plot against her, then she’d never have a reason to suspect he might do so.

Otherwise, he’d simply have to take things day by day. Sniffing out information on Sans was going to be the most difficult part—Muffet could never find out that he was looking for his brother. If he was lucky, she’d kill him. If he wasn’t…. Well. That simply didn’t bear thinking—

_(“I’ll let you out when I think you’ve learned your lesson.”)_

—didn’t bear thinking about. He swallowed, ignoring the way his bones shook. Breathing deep, he refocused his thoughts again, looking ahead. He’d have to find a place for them. Hotland wasn’t an option; once he clawed himself free of her clutches, she’d be after him. Leaving him alive—allowing him to flaunt his defiance—would damage her reputation. She’d have to kill him. Or, at least, she’d try.

Waterfall wasn’t an option either. The guard captain was no fan of his, and he wasn’t keen to try to carve out a space for himself in her territory, particularly because he didn’t exactly have any legitimate skills. He was a gutter-rat through and through—he wouldn’t even know _how_ to live on the right side of the law. The Capital was certainly an option, but it was much too close to Muffet’s territory for comfort. Too bad the Ruins were closed off, or he’d—

Snowdin.

He lifted his head as the idea struck him. Snowdin was too cold for Muffet and her spiderlings. She had her runners and underlings that could survive Snowdin’s extreme conditions, but not only would they have to pass through Waterfall to get to Snowdin, they’d be risking Grillby’s ire if they did so. The fire elemental was _the_ authority in Snowdin, and he had a long-standing rivalry with the Spider.

A plan began to take shape. It wasn’t going to be easy. In fact, it was going to be damn difficult, but it would be worth it in the end.

…525…

…530…

His base HP began to climb.

…535…

…536…

…540…

He swallowed down the fear and the despair that still clawed at his soul, pushing it aside.

…540…

It was going to be hard.

…545…

…550…

He didn’t doubt that for even a moment.

…550…

But.

…555…

…565…

…575…

He could beat her.

…585…

…595…

He had hope. And for now, that would be enough. It had to be. ~~It was all he had left~~.

…600…

_Be obedient. Be patient. Play stupid. Hold on to hope._

 

In the morning, when Muffet came in to check on him, Papyrus made sure to smile for her. “Heya, boss,” he said, cheerfully, “How’re you this fine mornin’, huh?”

She stood before him, one pair of arms crossed over her chest and the other pair resting on her hips. “Good morning, dearie. You’re certainly cheerful.”

_Play stupid._

He shrugged awkwardly. “ ‘m kinda hopin’ if I’m polite, you’ll lemme take a shower. ‘ve got dust in places I never really wanted dust ta be, ya know?” He made a face, trying not to flinch when she giggled.

“Well, I’m certain we can work something out,” she said, looking him over.

 _Be obedient_.

“Yeah? Ya got sumthin’ in mind, boss?” He forced his smile to widen, even as his soul twisted in trepidation.

She ran a hand over his mandible. “Are you going to be a good boy for me?”

 _Be obedient._ ~~Even if it made his bones crawl and his soul churn.~~

He leaned into the touch, swallowing back the rancid magic that rose up in response. Lightning fast, she caught his face in her hands, putting pressure on his mandible and forcing him to look at her. “You’re shaking, Papyrus dear. Are you frightened?”

His smile wavered. “I—“ Shutting his sockets, he nodded slightly.

She softened immediately, gently caressing his cheekbones. She paid special attention to his scarred socket—

_(A thumb pressing into the matrix holding his broken skull together, threatening to shatter it entirely.)_

—petting a careful thumb over the spider-webbing cracks. “Your poor face,” she murmured, leaning down to kiss his brow. Pulling back, she knelt in front of him, still cupping his face between her hands. “You should have known better, pet.” A claw caught on the rim of his socket, and he couldn’t hold back a whimper. She lifted that finger away, again petting his face apologetically. “If you’d been good and done your job properly, then none of this would have been necessary.”

Rage rose up, but he breathed through it. _Be obedient._ “ ‘m sorry, boss,” he whispered, “I know. Yer right. ‘Course yer right. I fucked up. ‘m sorry.”

She sighed, smiling slightly. “What _am_ I going to do with you, Papyrus?” she asked playfully. “You know, another monster wouldn’t have put up with your lapse in judgment. You’re fortunate I’m so generous.” Soft touches to his ribs and sternum made his soul shrivel, but he bore it unflinchingly. Well. He tried, but he couldn’t quite still the faint tremble in his bones. “Come along then,” she said, licking her fingers and using the saliva to melt the webbing from his hands. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

With his hands free, he had the fleeting urge to attack her, but he forced it down. If he failed, then he’d be back in the box, back in the dark bleeding from a cracked skull and a shattered ribcage and drowning in his own spent magic— _Be obedient_. _Be patient. Play stupid._

Now was not the time. He smiled at her and massaged his wrists, urging the mana to start circulating again. “Thanks, boss. Are ya gonna be joinin’ me?” he asked with a wink, “Could use the help, if ya catch my meanin’.” Rancid magic again rose up, threatening to gag him, but he forced it down. ~~She would join him whether he asked or not. At least if he invited her, he could pretend that he’d had some sort of choice in the matter~~.

She chuckled, patting his cheek. “You’re shaking again, but it was a good try, ahuhuhu~.” He flinched a little, but she only smiled. “Oh, dearie, I’m not angry with you. Not for that. A little fear is good. But—“ Her smile broadened. “—we don’t want you flinching every time I go to touch you, now do we?”

“No, boss,” he said, voice wavering, “Guess not.”

“Very good. We’ll just have to get you accustomed to it, then, won’t we?”

His bones started to audibly rattle then. Still, he nodded. “S-sure, boss,” he said, “Whatever ya want, huh?”

She stroked the side of his face.

 _Be obedient. Be patient. Play stupid._  He could do this. He could do this. He could—

He pressed his face into her hand, ignoring the way his chest hitched and his soul heaved. He could do this. He could do this. He could do this. “Good boy,” she said throatily, catching his chin and forcing him to meet her eyes.

It took everything he had not to vomit.

 _Hold on to hope_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: Sadism. POV of a sadistic/psychotic character. Major injury. Mention of debilitating/disfiguring injury. Graphic strangulation resulting in on-screen death. Kidnapping. Unwilling imprisonment. Prostitution mention. Threat of prostitution. Semi-graphic female-on-male rape. It is not sexualized or romanticized, but genitals are explicitly mentioned. Aftermath of rape. Flashbacks and trauma. Threat of rape. Sexual coercion. Manipulation. Physical, psychological, and emotional abuse.


	7. Sins of the Past, pt. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans adjusts to life at the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: implied sexual slavery, references to rape, rape culture, references to murder and murderous thoughts, brief self-harm, slavery, anxiety. Overall, though, this is a comparatively lighter chapter.

They reached the palace all too soon, and Sans sunk down in his seat, fingers twitching in the confines of the metal cuff keeping his control hand contained. His soul thrummed and hammered, fixed on the castle’s looming towers. He tried one last time to beg his freedom from Mettaton, but he just hushed the small skeleton and insisted that he should be excited.

The rickshaw was parked in front of the palace doors, and a footman appeared to help Sans to the cobblestones. He expected to be fondled, but the footman was surprisingly cordial. “Come. Along,” Mettaton said, guiding him down the hall as if he knew this place intimately. Sans might have been tempted to wander off, but there were guardsmen everywhere. So he stuck close to Mettaton, keeping his head down.

The ceilings were high and tall, and his footsteps echoed. Distantly, he thought he heard music, and they seemed to be headed in that direction. “Goodness. I hope we. Aren’t late.” Mettaton motioned for him to pick up the pace, and Sans obeyed, unsure what else he could possibly do.

Soon enough, the music grew clearer, though it wasn’t a tune he recognized. They approached a doorway, and Mettaton motioned to a servant. The servant surveyed them and, with a sniff, said, “I’ll inform the king that you’ve arrived.” He opened the door and slipped inside. Music and light spilled from the room beyond, only to be cut off when the door shut.

Mettaton turned to him. “Now, darling. I think we. Need to talk.” He laid a heavy hand on Sans’ shoulder, the weight pressing uncomfortably on Sans’ joints. “You are going to. Go in there. And you are going to. Be on your best. Behavior. The king. Has already paid. For you. If he is. Pleased with his purchase. Then you will live.” The pressure increased and Sans had to suck in a sharp breath, pained. “If not? He will. Kill you. Understand, darling?” Tears welling in his sockets, Sans nodded, not protesting when Mettaton slapped him on the back ‘encouragingly’. “Good boy.”

When the door opened to permit them, Mettaton forced him ahead, and Sans stumbled forward. He froze in the doorway. The ballroom beyond was packed with well-dressed monsters, and all of them turned to stare at him. Magic rushed through his skull, drowning out the music. He was faintly aware of someone shouting something— _Announcing Mettaton,_ his mind distantly supplied—and then he was being lead to the front of the room, his soul thrumming. Stars above, he couldn’t breathe.

The king loomed ahead of him, his ceremonial armor gleaming in the low light. He was massive, radiating menace. Mettaton bowed insomuch as his boxy body would allow, and when Sans was too awestruck to move on his own, the robot pressed on his thoracic vertebrae, forcing him to bow. Overhead, he heard a rumble, then realized the king was laughing.

Dizzy and sick, magic still rushing through the mana lines in his skull, Sans could only catch snatches of conversation.

“—sweet-piece—“

“—brought us?”

“—gift.”

Then the tip of a trident pressed into his chin, forcing his head up, and Sans was looking up at the monumental monster. A huge hand caught him around the mandible, forcing his skull first one way and then the other. The fur prickled along his bones, and the rough nails tipping each finger scraped against his skull.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t _breathe_. His fear must have shown in his face, because the king threw his head back and laughed, loud and deep. That massive paw patted the top of his head, causing Sans’ whole body to rock with the force of it. “You’re lucky I didn’t buy you for myself,” he said, “I’d break a little thing like you.” Before Sans could fully process that, the king turned his head to the side and said, “Come, Asriel. Meet your present.”

The prince stepped forward. He was almost as massive as his father, though he was less muscular. He shouldn’t have faded into the background as easily as he had, but he didn’t have his father’s presence. The king was talking again. Sans could feel it vibrating his ribcage, but he was getting lightheaded. The prince surveyed both Sans and his father, his features a mask. His expression was not at all reassuring.

A huge hand tugged on his sheer robe, and Sans cried out, flinching away. It only earned him a barked laugh. The king’s other hand caught his shoulder, holding him steady as he tore the robe away, until Sans was clad in nothing but the ribbons wrapped around his bones. Instinct kicked in, and Sans grabbed at the hand, trying to push it away, trying to get free. No longer paralyzed by fear, he was now wild with it, screaming incoherently.

It did nothing. That same huge hand reached up inside his ribcage, and hooked around his spine, hoisting him up until he was eye to socket with the king of monsters. His lips peeled away from his teeth, revealed predatory fangs that should _not_ belong in a goat monster’s mouth. It took Sans far too long to realize that it was a smile. “Have fun taming this one,” he said, turning to his son. Then, before Sans could react, the king casually threw him to the prince. “Happy birthday.”

The prince didn’t do more than raise his chin and tuck Sans into his chest. He thanked his father, voice flat, then sat on the smaller throne, one arm around Sans’ chest. The king’s gaze lingered on them, boring into his son. Turning away, he snatched a glass up and downed its contents. Turning back to the rest of the crowd, he roared, “So? Is this not a _celebration_? Aren’t you all enjoying yourselves? _Dance_. Drink!” He opened his hand and allowed the glass to shatter on the ground. A servant scurried forward to sweep it up.

Only then did Sans look out at the crowd and see that he wasn’t the only monster ill at ease. The nobles were stiff and awkward. But they obeyed, going through the motions of revelry though it was obvious that none of them wanted to be here.

A heavy arm pressed into him, and a shockingly soft voice murmured, “Can you hold out for an hour or so?” Sans looked up at the goat monster, mute. The prince looked down at him briefly, then raised his chin to watch the partygoers. “I can use you as an excuse to leave,” he said, his mouth barely moving, “but it would be better to wait. Will you be okay until then?”

Still mute, Sans nodded. The larger monster exhaled in relief, adjusting his grip on Sans. “Good.”

As promised, the prince excused himself roughly an hour later—standing stoic while his father made a crude joke about breaking in his new pet. Sans had settled down somewhat while they watched the party, but that comment caused his shaking to resume. After all, while Asriel had behaved himself in front of the others, Sans had no reason to believe he’d continue once they were behind closed doors.

The prince brought them to an expansive suite of rooms, carefully setting Sans down as he shut the door behind him. “I’ll find you some clothing,” he said, disappearing down a hallway. Sans just stood in the parlor, bones rattling. He glanced at the door, wondering if he should make a break for it, but the prince returned before he could make up his mind. Seeing the way he was eyeing the door, the prince knelt beside him and held a huge shirt against his chest. On Sans, it would hang down to the floor. “I don’t recommend trying to run,” he said, “Not right now, at least. I have some contacts in the guard. Do you have any relatives? Friends? Someone willing to take you in?”

Sans nodded hesitantly, then abruptly realized that information could be used against him. His soul started to hammer, and he said, “Please—don’t hurt him! I’ll do whatever you want, but please—“

The prince held up a hand. “Hush,” he said, “I’m not going to hurt anyone, least of all your…friend? I asked because I can’t just let you go.” Looking him over, he sighed and shook his head. “You’d be eaten alive on your own. But if you have someone to look out for you, then I can ask one of my contacts to deliver you to him. You’ll need to wait, though. My father….” He looked away and sighed. “He’ll get bored with this game of his soon enough. Until then, you need to wait. Do you think you can do that?”

Still trembling, Sans hesitated. He couldn’t trust the prince, could he? But…what other choice did he have? He wrapped his arms around himself, rendered mute. Sighing, Asriel handed him the large shirt. “I’m not sure if you want help removing the ribbons, or if you’d rather do it yourself. The bathroom is over there, and there should be some scissors in the drawer.”

Sans stood still, holding the shirt between shaking hands. Swallowing, he followed the prince’s directions and went into the bathroom. He immediately locked the door and slid to the floor, shaking violently. He tore at the ribbons, only remembering the scissors a few minutes later. Grabbing them, he awkwardly clipped the ribbon away, not caring when the cutting edge scraped painfully against his bones—with one hand disabled and his bones shaking so hard they rattled, it was the best he could do. Finally, the last of the ribbons fell away, and he threw the scissors across the room.

He huddled against the door, ribcage heaving as he tried to silence his sobbing, as he waited for the prince to grow impatient and break the door down. He pulled the shirt on, desperate to be covered by something—even if it felt uncomfortably like a mark of ownership. Eventually, he cried himself out, and he fell asleep against the door, emotionally and physically exhausted.

He woke when he heard movement in the room beyond the bathroom door. Footsteps approached and a soft knock caused Sans’ bones to go stiff. “When you’re ready to come out, there’s food for you on the table.”

There was a brief pause, then the footsteps sounded again as Asriel left. Distantly, he heard a door shut. Sans just pulled his legs into his chest, not yet ready to move. Or to trust the prince’s words. It had been a couple days since he’d really eaten, though, and his soul was pulsing with hunger. He pressed the side of his skull to the door, listening. Beyond the door everything was silent. Steeling himself, he unlocked the door and slipped out into the hallway.

He stood in the doorway of the parlor, hesitant. His gaze landed on the plate of food set in the center of the coffee table. Pancakes and fluffy eggs. Sausage and what looked like a muffin of some sort. Magic flooded his mouth and his soul screamed for food. He eyed the rest of the room, but there was no one there. The magic in his mouth shaped itself into a tongue, and he scurried over to the coffee table, snatching the plate up as best he could. One hand was still bound, and it made him clumsy. He turned back to the hallway he’d emerged from. Eating in the bathroom was not an appealing idea, but—

A fish-woman blocked the doorway, making Sans jump. “Where did you come from?!” he squeaked, backpedalling.

Armor clicking, she stepped out of the doorway, arms crossed. “You didn’t clear the other rooms,” she said, jerking a thumb back the way he’d come. She’d been waiting for him?

Fingers clutching the plate so hard he was afraid it would crack, Sans asked, “W-what do you want?”

She sighed and scratched the back of her neck. “Look, kid. We gotta talk, okay? Sit down.”

He swallowed, uneasy. There was no escape, though. Starting to shake, he set the plate on the table and knelt in front of it. Somehow, though, he wasn’t hungry anymore. Looking at him, she sat across from him, planting her arms on the table. “You know who I am?” she asked.

He glanced up at her, then back at the plate, nodding. Of course he knew who she was. “Undyne,” he whispered, “The Spear of Justice.” Stars above, the kids in Hotland whispered stories about her—either in awe or terror, depending which side of the law they found themselves on.

“That’s right,” she said, “So you know what kind of monster I am, right?”

He hesitated, then looked up at her. Despite the sharp teeth, her smile was both fierce and gentle. It, oddly, reminded him of Papyrus—all jagged edges and hidden kindness. He shook his head, not sure how to respond. “Scary,” probably wasn’t the right answer, though.

She blinked, then threw her head back and laughed. When she got control of herself, her smile was fiercer but more genuine. Like she just couldn’t contain herself. “Only if you’re a bad guy,” she said, “and you’re not a bad guy, kiddo.”

He thought of his brother then, and even as he responded almost instinctively to her fierce grin, some part of him locked itself away. He had no doubt that Undyne would consider his brother a ‘bad guy’, and for that reason, he would never be able to fully trust her. Despite that, he found himself liking her nonetheless. “No,” he said softly, starting to pick one of the pancakes into smaller and smaller pieces, “I’m not a bad guy.”

“Right,” she said, “and neither is Prince Asriel.”

He hesitated, pulling his hands back into his lap. “I—“

She leaned forward and said, “Look, kid. Both of us want to get you out of here. Az knows you’re scared, but he just wants to get you through this and back to your family safely. You don’t have to tell us who—yet—but at some point, I’m gonna need a name. Until then…” She sighed and pulled a metal circlet out of her inventory. “You’re gonna have to wear this.”

He looked at it, about to ask what it was, but then he saw the tag. It was a collar. He swallowed, then reached out to take it from her. “…he wants to collar me?”

She shook her head. “It’s not about ‘want’, kid. He’s gotta. If he doesn’t….” She sighed and sat back, rubbing the back of her neck. “Look. No one’s gonna touch Prince Asriel’s property. But a loose sweet-piece running around the castle…. This is for your protection.”

His head jerked up. “I—I thought I’d be locked in here.”

She laughed. “Here? Nah, kid, you’re not a prisoner. You’re a sweet-piece. That comes with a lot of freedoms…but it also means you’re fair game for anyone looking for a….” She eyed him and obviously changed her word choice. “…a softer touch.”

He snorted, setting the collar on the table. “I know what a sweet-piece is,” he said sharply, “I know what sex is. I know what _rape_ is. Using a nicer word isn’t going to make things any better for me.”

She flinched, and he allowed himself a moment to be awed at his own bravery. He just made the Spear of Justice herself flinch. “Yeah,” she said, “sorry, kiddo. You’re right. And that means you know how important that collar is. It means no one can touch you without Az’ permission.” He found the clasp, and the collar opened on a hinge. Too narrow for most monsters, but it would fit his cervical vertebrae perfectly. Undyne slid a small lock and a key across the table. “You’ll need to keep it locked,” she said, “but the key is yours. Az has a spare, just in case, but you can take it off at any time.”

He tried to pick it up, but his disabled hand hindered him. Seeing that, she took his control hand and said, “I can take this off too…but you’ve got to understand that trying to fight your way out isn’t going to work, kid. The only way out is to play by the rules and let us take care of things. You understand?”

Sans looked up at her, really thinking about it. She was right, and he knew it. It must have been obvious in his eyelights, because she reached for his hand and unlocked the cuff, freeing him. He flexed his hand, the mana rushing back into it. He didn’t have time to savor his freedom, though. He looked back at the collar, then he picked it up and closed it over his throat.

Loose enough, he supposed, but his throat knotted. It felt like he couldn’t breathe. Exhaling shakily, he pulled the collar off and set it aside. Fresh tears tracked down his cheekbones, but a webbed hand was laid overtop his own. “Listen,” she said, leaning forward, “We’re gonna get you through this. We’ll get you home to your family, but it’s gonna take time, and until then, you’ll need to work with us to keep yourself safe. You understand?”

Hugging himself, Sans nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. Mute, he took the key, clutching it like a lifeline. “Can I get some clothes? Real ones? Or do I…?” He thought of the ribbons and shuddered.

“Az’ll have something for you,” she said, shifting to hold his hand. “Promise.”

He let out a shuddering breath but squeezed her hand, grateful for the support.

 

Weeks passed. He got into the rhythm of palace life. Of life as a presumed sweet-piece. Of life at Prince Asriel’s side. It could have been worse. And for many it was. Not all the nobles were as kind as Asriel, and the less said about King Asgore the better. As promised, though, one look at the collar and his tag and they left him alone. For the most part. Undyne visited regularly as well, taking tea with the prince, and he grew to regard her as a friend.

Eventually, he trusted her enough to offer up his brother’s name, only for Undyne to freeze. “You’re kidding me, right?” she asked. He shook his head, and she grumbled for a while about that particular skeleton causing her nothing but trouble. She demanded to know if he had anyone else, but Sans insisted—honestly—that Papyrus was all he had. She sighed and grumbled some more, but eventually agreed to see what she could do about making contact with him.

Both Asriel and Undyne were reluctant to let him go, though. They kept telling him to wait. To be patient. That they didn’t want to arouse the King’s suspicions. It was frustrating—infuriating at times. He felt so helpless, and he hated it. Hated that he hadn’t been able to save himself from being sold into slavery. Hated that he was entirely dependent upon the kindness of his owner. Hated his own weakness.

Rather than allow that hatred to fester, though, he channeled it into something constructive. Undyne taught him a few key moves to disarm an opponent at close range. She couldn’t teach him more than that without arousing suspicion, but he wasn’t content with the paltry self-defense lessons. He wanted—needed—to be more proactive. He was never going to be helpless again. He was never going to be a victim again. He swore it.

The other sweet-pieces proved to be surprisingly valuable as a resource. They taught him stories he’d never heard before, about particularly clever ‘pieces wheedling information from their patrons. One particular ‘piece taught him some herb-lore. A particular kind of fungus to heal an illness, plants to prevent an unwanted pregnancy, herbs to put a monster to sleep.

There were other lessons too. Couched carefully behind innocuous language. This plant could only be used in small doses because of its toxicity. This fungus looked almost identical to another that was _viciously_ poisonous. The idle observation that a monster had to _directly_ and intentionally kill someone to gain any LV. Lessons within lessons, and Sans took them all to heart.

Weeks blended into months, and Sans spent much of his time in the library, searching through the books there. Learning everything he could. Most surprising of all, however, he found himself growing closer to Prince Asriel. He’d resisted the Prince’s small kindnesses at first—reminded himself that Muffet could be kind too—but it became harder and harder to keep his distance as time passed.

Asriel always steeled himself before venturing out into the palace proper, and in the evenings when he came home, he was bent and worn down. Yet he always managed a small smile for Sans. Always asked how his day had gone. Took tea with him out in the garden. Asked him if he needed anything. Assured him that, soon, they’d be able to send him back to his brother. He was unfailingly kind, and it wore away at Sans’ resistance.

One day, Sans made a mistake, though. He said, “You’re the one that should be king. Not—“

But Asriel covered his face with one massive hand, shaking his head. “Please,” he whispered, “don’t.” They dropped the subject, and neither brought it up again. Sans thought on it often, though.

As the months dragged on, Sans made his way down to the kitchens and, uninvited, started baking. No one objected—a sweet-piece had a great deal of freedom, especially one with the prince’s collar around his neck. ( ~~The collar was a constant weight on his throat and collarbone. It scrapped and scratched at his bones, wearing his vertebrae smooth. He was too afraid to take it off, though, even in private—he didn’t want to leave it behind accidentally. Not after seeing an uncollared sweet-piece assaulted in the hallway~~.) Asriel was pleased with the cookies and teacakes Sans brought to tea that afternoon. As were the guards and servants Sans shared the cookies with.

He became a familiar sight down in the kitchens, and his treats became famous. None of these monsters had ever had food prepared by a monster without LV. None of them had thought there would be a difference, but the magic went down noticeably easier and incorporated smoothly into the soul. Soon enough, an enterprising servant brought a cookie to their master and was rewarded for it. Asriel tried to forbid him from working in the kitchens, telling him that he was calling attention to himself. But when the treats stopped coming, the nobles started to get restless. With a sigh, Asriel permitted him to return to the kitchens—but now, Sans was teaching a few more sweet-pieces to bake. The ‘pieces were pleased to learn and a new skill, and the surplus of baked goods appeased the nobles.

It was tempting, at times, to use his knowledge to poison the lot of them. To purge the castle and its grounds of the corrupt nobility and their corrupt king, but Sans thought of Asriel and Undyne and the other sweet-pieces. He certainly couldn’t guarantee that they wouldn’t partake of the sweets. Furthermore, what of the castle’s children? He thought of his brother too—the street tough, the drug dealer, Muffet’s right hand. How many monsters would think he was entirely unrepentant, would think him evil or needlessly cruel? In truth, Sans was not in a position to rightly judge the monsters of the castle, so he could not style himself as their executioner either.

He fell into a routine as time passed. Wake up early. Head down to the kitchens and join his fellows, baking cinnamon skulls or almond cookies or chocolate babka. Head up to the library and read until his sockets started to slip closed. It was an uncomfortably comfortable routine, and at times, he could easily see himself slipping peacefully, even happily, into life at the castle. So, whenever he found himself getting too comfortable, he’d slip his fingers under the metal collar and pull until it cut off his air, until it cut into his bones and the wounds wept mana.

Finally, _finally_ , Undyne knocked on Asriel’s door early in the morning—before even Sans was awake. It was time to go. He said goodbye to Asriel, wishing him luck and thanking him for his kindness. Asriel smiled gently and hugged him tight. “I am glad to see you go, Sans, but I’ll certainly miss you.”

With that, Undyne lead him out of the castle through the Capital’s streets. He followed her willingly enough, but he hesitated when she bypassed the road to Hotland and instead headed straight into Waterfall. “My brother—“

“Doesn’t work for Muffet anymore,” she said, pausing. “Little shit’s been making trouble for me and my guards in Snowdin.” Sans hesitated, remembering the last time he’d blindly followed someone he thought he knew well enough to trust. She smiled ruefully, then reached into a pocket and offered him a gold coin. “Look, I don’t get what this is supposed to prove? But he said to give you this and tell you he’s picked up some new tricks while you were gone.”

Sans studied the coin and smiled. Double-headed. One of Papy’s trick coins. He closed his hand around it and followed her, his soul aching. In Waterfall, monsters took one look at Undyne and slipped into cracks and crevices in the walls or ducked down a side path, eager to avoid the Captain of the Guard. Fellow guards saluted and eyed the sweet-piece at her side, earning a quick cuff to the back of the head and a sharp order not to get distracted.

Soon enough, they were crossing through the heavy mist that separated Waterfall and Snowdin. The air went from humid and cool to frigid and biting with shocking speed. Snow crunched under their feet, and the mist faded out. Ahead of them, a palisade rose up, keeping hostile monsters out of Snowdin town. Undyne clasped his shoulder reassuringly and went up to the guard shack.

The guard inside didn’t even stand, and his salute was lazy and lackadaisical. “Mornin’, Cap’n,” he rumbled, opening the gate for her. Undyne didn’t comment on his borderline insubordination, just guided Sans through the gate. She did mutter under her breath, but her words were too indistinct to catch.

Inside, propaganda posters had been obviously ripped from the walls, leaving behind staples and fragments of the original message. It was still early morning, but the walk through the Underground had taken several hours—even the Captain of the guard had reason to be wary of the Riverperson—and the artificial sunlight caused the snow to glisten. Monsters were just starting to rise and go about their business. The familiar smell of cinnamon pervaded the air.

The town was small and quaint. Even with the high palisade and the crisp air, he still felt good about this place. It had potential, he thought. This could be a good place, even if it wasn’t there just yet. “My brother?” he asked, and Undyne pointed to a house along the main street.

Sans stared at it, smiling when he saw the winking Gyftmas lights strung across the eaves. Sans had always loved Gyftmas, had loved decorating the bakery and preparing the Gyftmas cookies. His brother used to joke that, when they had their own place, they could string Gyftmas lights up and leave them there year-round. Seeing the admittedly worn-looking house strung with lights caused his throat to tighten and his breath to catch. “He didn’t know we were coming today,” she said, “Just that we were coming soon.”

Sans nodded, walking over to the door in a trance. Undyne followed close by, unwilling to leave him unguarded apparently. He hesitated on the doorstep, though, somehow afraid to knock. Afraid his brother wouldn’t be there. Afraid he’d been tricked again. Afraid of so many things.

Steeling himself, he raised his hand and knocked crisply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this to be the last segment, but I didn't want to rush the end. So we have one more part ahead of us.


	8. Sins of the Past, end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bittersweet reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in the end notes contains spoilers.

The door opened, and Sans stared at the other skeleton. His brother, but so changed. The right side of his face was shattered, the socket cracked and his eyelight dead. “…Papy?” he asked, not wanting to believe that this was his brother. What had she done to him? What happened, after Sans was ushered out and sold off? “Is that…is that really you?” The stranger in his brother’s bones smiled broadly, and Sans’ soul clenched as tears gathered in his sockets. “Papy!” he said, certain now.

Papyrus knuckled the top of his head, but his eyelight remained fixed on Undyne. “Ya really brought ‘im, then?” he said, something like wonder in his voice, “I thought…I thought it was a trap. But ya really….” He stopped speaking and coughed, stepping aside so Sans could come in out of the cold. “Not you, fish,” he said, holding up a hand to ward her off. “I ain’t ‘bout ta let the captain ‘a the guard inta my house. Here’s what ya came fer.” He reached into his inventory and pulled out a thick file folder. “Everythin’ I know ‘bout the Spider Gang. Now get the fuck outta my town.”

She took the file. “Don’t get uppity, squirt. After I roust the Spider, I’m coming after your boney ass.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving her off, “ ‘m shakin’ in my boots, sweetheart.”

She flipped him off but left without protest. Sans watched her go, briefly wanting to run after her. She’d been one of his only friends in the castle, after all. But…his gaze fell on the folder in her hand. Would she really have delivered him to his brother if Papy hadn’t agreed to share his information with her? Had he, once again, been bought and sold by people he trusted?

~~Did it really matter? It was the way of their world, after all. This was just the way things were. Had he really expected something better?~~

His brother ushered him inside, and as soon as the door shut, Papy swept him up into a hug, checking him over as he brought him to the couch. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” Sitting down, Papy pulled at his shirt and the cuffs of his pants, studying his tibia, fibia, ribs, and arms for any sign of damage. Then his gaze fell on the collar around his throat. He shifted it, revealing the network of small scars it hid.

“I have the key,” Sans said, voice small and ashamed. With shaking fingers, he reached up to pull it off…but his fingers stuttered and fumbled. Carefully, Papy took over, twisting the key in the lock. The collar opened and he flung it into the corner of the room, again studying the scars around Sans’ neck.

“Oh, Sans….” His voice sounded so soft and mournful.

It was too much. Sans inhaled sharply, chest hitching as he started to sob. Papy gathered him in and rocked him, arms tight and solid and _there_. Both of them started projecting, a confusing muddle of /JOY/care/LOVE/warmth/AFFECTION/security/strength/stability/. Papy’s projections weren’t as strong as they used to be, though, and Sans Checked him on a hunch.

His LV had shot up by 3. From 12 to 15 in less than a year. Seeing his HP was like getting a punch to his nonexistent gut, however. He was at full health, but the base stat was much lower than it had been when Sans saw him last. Gaining LV should have raised his HP, not lowered it. Which meant his brother…happy, cheerful, hopeful Papyrus…had started to lose HoPe. Sans’ soul ached, and he couldn’t keep silent anymore. “Papy? What happened?” he asked, running fingers over his scarred face. “What did she do to you?”

Papy sighed, pulling Sans’ hand away from his face and folding his fingers around it. “’s not important, bro. ‘m fine. An’ yer back. We’re t’gether again. Tha’s what matters, right? We’re t’gether, an’ we’re safe.”

For the moment, Sans didn’t argue. He buried his face in Papyrus’ chest and allowed himself to be held, still crying in relief, in joy, and out of bone-deep sorrow. Only after he was all cried out did Papy show him around the house. One of the upstairs rooms had been prepared for him. A handmade set of shelves was pushed against one wall, a few books already tucked inside—astronomy books, mostly, but a few looked like puzzle books. The bedframe was handmade as well, stars and moons cut into the headboard. The walls and ceiling had been painted a deep blue, precisely painted constellations arcing across the pseudo-sky.

He sat down heavily and Papyrus sat beside him, both of them looking up at the stars. “Figured since we can’t see the real thing…I could make a substitute fer ya.”

Sans couldn’t say anything. He just stared up at the ‘sky’, soul aching. He suspected that, if he were to check them against the star charts in the astronomy books, they’d be shockingly accurate. Papy could be almost obsessively precise when he had a project, and Sans could easily imagine him working feverishly. Skipping even those brief naps that served as his semi-regular sleep schedule in an attempt to distract himself from everything.

He leaned against Papy, and the larger skeleton threw an arm over his shoulders, pulling him close. They slept in the same room that night. Well. Sans slept. Papy rarely slept a full eight hours, but he was there when Sans fell asleep and he was there when he woke up, taking apart what appeared to be a coffee maker. When Sans sat up and greeted him, he blushed and looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “Still ain’t much fer cookin’. Place down the way sells cinnamon bunnies—not half as good as yer skulls, but tha’s ta be expected—and sumtimes I can talk Grillbz inta—“

“I can make breakfast.” He hesitated, and Sans understood. “Papy, this is my home, isn’t it? I’m not a _guest_. You don’t need to look after me. Not like that, at least.”

A sheepish smile— ~~and it hurt to see that familiar expression on a cracked and broken face; stars it hurt more than Sans could say~~ —touched his mouth, and he chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, yer right. So—whaddaya need?”

“Eggs, milk, butter, sugar, and flour. Maybe a can of soda, if we can scrounge it up.” Soda gave pancakes a nice, fluffy texture that nothing else could quite match.

“Right. I gotta go ta the store. I’ll be back.”

It occurred to Sans that his brother probably hadn’t had a good, home-cooked meal since they’d been separated. Was he thinner? So hard to tell, since they weren’t fleshy monsters. “Can I come too?” Papy wouldn’t be skipping meals or trying to live off whatever he could scavenge again. Not with Sans here.

Papy hesitated, then he thought about it. With a shrug, he stood and said, “Don’ see why not. Ain’t nobody in Snowdin stupid ‘nough ta fuck with ya, not with me ‘round. Get dressed an’ we’ll head out.”

When Sans pointed out that he only had the rather revealing sweet-piece clothing he’d arrived in, Papy smirked and marched over to the closet, throwing it open to reveal a few hoodies and some tennis shoes. There were undershirts and pants in the dresser, as well as socks. “Found what I could fer ya. Later, we can head ta the dump an’ see what we can find. Or we can try ta trade what we got. Up ta you.”

Grateful, Sans ushered him out so he could get dressed, then they both headed out into the snow. Sans looked up at the ceiling, watching the snowflakes flutter down. He held out his hand, catching them. The warmth of the mana in his bones caused the flake to melt in his palm. The way the snow flaked as he kicked it made him smile, and he wondered if they could try out some of those winter activities he’d seen in human videos. Making snowmen. Snowball fights. Snow angels. The possibilities—

He looked up with a smile, ready to babble excitedly, but Papy’s features were sharp and cruel, his ever-present grin manic and nothing but pure threat. Menace radiated from him and the monsters they passed went pale and ducked away as soon as they saw him. They were afraid of him. More so than they had been even in Hotland. Combined with his jump in LV, it painted a disturbing picture.

The reminder of just how brutal their world could be sobered Sans immediately. He knew what it cost, to take hold of a stretch of territory. And what it took to keep it. Papy had called this ‘his’ town, and Sans hadn’t questioned it, hadn’t considered the implications before.

 _Oh, Papyrus_.

He resisted the urge to reach out and take his brother’s hand. In public, at least, such soft displays would not be welcome. It made his soul ache to think of, but he could only steel himself. This was the way of things, wasn’t it? This was how it had to be, right? This was just…the way things were. Hoping for something better would only lead to disappointment.

Bile rose up, but he pushed it aside, following his brother into the general store. The snowbunny behind the counter jumped when she saw him, whiskers twitching. She stepped forward, pushing a rabbit kit behind her back. “Papyrus!” she said, too loud, too high-pitched. “How…?” She cleared her throat, taking a breath. “How can I help you?” she asked, forcing a smile.

Papy planted one arm on the counter, propping his chin on his fist. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he said, grinning. “I ain’t doin’ the shoppin’ taday, matter ‘a fact. ‘s the little guy.” He jerked a thumb at Sans, and the bunny’s nose twitched. “Mind helpin’ ‘im out?”

“Of-of course!” She jumped, coming around the counter to look down at Sans. Her kit tucked himself underneath the counter, hiding. “And what do you need…um….” She froze, realizing that she didn’t know his name.

The whole process made Sans’ soul ache. He glanced at Papy, who was feigning boredom. He knew his brother, though. It had to kill him, playing the bad guy. And…Sans would be expected to fit the role too, wouldn’t he? Or was he supposed to cower before his own brother and play the victim? And exactly how much would that hurt Papy?

It made him sick. The whole thing. His soul roiled and his bones chilled. He tried to speak, tried to fill the role he was assigned…but the words caught in his throat. He swallowed them down and tried again, only to find himself rendered mute.

He couldn’t do it. He simply _couldn’t_. Couldn’t abuse the already beaten-down shopkeeper. Couldn’t treat his brother—his HoPe already damaged, his LV already obscenely high—like he was a bad guy. Maybe Sans really was nothing but a sweet-piece. Maybe he simply wasn’t cut out for life out in the wider world…. But he couldn’t be anything else, anything other. So Sans looked up at the bunny monster and offered up his sunniest smile, even as his soul felt like it was cracking. “My name’s Sans! The _Sensational_ Sans!”

Papy quirked a smile, and Sans’ soul relaxed. “Doncha mean ‘Sansational’, bro?” He giggled, delighted at the pun. He’d been afraid Papyrus would be embarrassed or upset with him. ~~Upset that Sans wasn’t a real monster. That he was nothing but a sweet-piece~~.

“I suppose so,” Sans agreed, then refocused on the bunny. She looked between the two of them, obviously still nervous and unsure of this whole situation. “What’s your name?”

She glanced at Papyrus, who just raised an expectant brow-bone. She swallowed and, shifting uneasily, said, “Bonny.”

Sans was not bold enough to ask after her kit. He didn’t want to spook her. “What a lovely name!” he said cheerfully, “And—are you the one that makes the cinnamon bunnies?”

Another glance at Papyrus. “I…I do. Yes.”

He giggled. “I like to make cinnamon skulls. We should compare recipes sometime.”

“I…I suppose.” She kept darting glances at Papy as she spoke, afraid he was going to snap at her. “What…what can I help you with, then?”

“Oh, right! I was going to make breakfast, but my brother doesn’t keep a well-stocked pantry. So I’ll be needing some basics for now. Flour, sugar, butter—“ He started listing things off on his fingers, careful to keep his tone cheerful and light. Trying not to be demanding. When Bonny confessed that they were out of butter—there was a shortage, and the capital was starting to impose rations—Sans waved it off as if it didn’t matter. “Vegetable oil should be fine, then,” he said, bright and happy.

She still wasn’t at ease when she rang them up, but she wasn’t as nervous as she had been when they first came in. Her kit was peering at them from behind the counter, and Papy spotted him, saluting with a genuine grin and a wink. Bonny inhaled sharply, but the kit just waved tentatively back. Then Papy’s eyelight caught on the kid’s bandana, and he met Bonny’s eye. “Ya got any ‘a those fer sale?”

Instead of answering, she just plucked the bandana off her kit’s neck and handed it over. Sans frowned, about to protest, but Papy knelt down and tied it around his neck, hiding the scars his collar left behind. He reached up and tugged on it, a familiar gesture. The soft fabric slid over his bones, soothing rather than cutting. It felt like an anchor. A reminder of his freedom. Unable to stop himself, he flung himself into his brother’s arms and held tight, fighting down relieved tears.

Papy returned the hug and met Bonny’s eye again. “Thanks, sweetheart. Won’ ferget this.”

For the first time, she looked at Papyrus with something other than fear. She lifted her chin and nodded once. “You’re welcome,” she said, then looked at Sans. “I’ll send word when I get the next shipment of butter in.”

They left once Sans had control of himself, and as they walked, he looked around again. Watching everyone flinch away from them. Taking in the high palisade that surrounded the town. It hurt his soul, seeing the fear and suspicion in their faces. Maybe that’s why, when he next baked cinnamon skulls, he went out and delivered them to the guards, the snowbunnies, the green fire elemental his brother called ‘Grillbz’, and anyone they passed on the way.

The first time, only Grillbz and Bonny were willing to give the skulls a try, but he made a weekly ritual of it, and soon enough, the others grew more courageous. He started to visit whenever he heard someone was sick or injured, bringing soup and biscuits. In time, he became a rather popular figure in the town, earning smiles and waves when he went out. ~~He ignored the whispering that often followed him. The leers. The jeering and the comments. He was a sweet-piece; what else had he expected?~~

All the while, Papy insisted on acting as his escort, and in the woods outside Snowdin, he took the time to teach Sans how to defend himself. They talked—once—about gaining LV. While sitting on a rock out in the forest, Papy ate one of the cinnamon skulls to regain the mana he’d lost in a recent scrap. Dust floated in the air around him, but he’d used snow to scrub his hands clean. Sans’ hands were pristine. No need to scrub snow between the phalanges. Papy had made sure of that, and Sans wasn’t sure what to make of it. Didn’t Papy want him to gain LV? To be useful? To be stronger? ~~He didn’t really want his brother to be nothing but a sweet-piece…did he?~~

“If I gained LOVE,” Sans started, tentative, “I’d be stronger.”

Papy paused, eyeing him. “Would ya?” he asked, picking at the skull.

“My attacks would be stronger,” Sans said, “And my base stats would be higher….”

Papy nodded, still picking at the pastry. “Yeah,” he agreed, jumping off the rock. “But would that make ya stronger?”

“I….” Sans looked up at him, uncertain. “Yes?”

Papy knelt in front of him, scrubbing the top of his skull with sticky fingers. Sans frowned and batted at his hands, earning a grin. Then Papy’s expression sobered. “Yer stats’d be higher, yeah, but you’d be brittle ‘round the edges. Maybe not the first time. Er the third time. Er the tenth. But ‘s an easy slope ta slip down. ‘fore ya know it, feels like everythin’s slipping ‘tween yer fingers, an’ yer not even sure ‘a what ya used ta be. Stats ain’t everythin’, bro. Sure as fuck ain’t the most important thing. Don’ sacrifice the important shit fer a string ‘a numbers. It ain’t worth it.”

Sans looked at him, soul aching all over again. “But you….”

Papy smirked. “Aw, darlin’. Ya really think I give a shit ‘bout stats?” Before Sans could ask why he’d gained so much LV, if not for the stat-boost, Papy scooped up a huge handful of snow and dumped it down the back of his shirt. Screeching, Sans twisted and turned, trying to shake out the snow as it melted against his spine. Papy took off running, and Sans chased after him, screaming.

They didn’t discuss LV after that. There were a lot of things they didn’t discuss. Papy refused to give him a straight answer about his new scars, and Sans was reluctant to talk about his time in the palace, though he knew Papy assumed the worst because of it. They didn’t talk about the days Papy would come home with dust and magic on his hands, knuckles bruised. Or the fearful glances townspeople shot him. And they never talked about the way Papy’s HP would dip and swell by turns, unstable and unsteady.

They didn’t talk about it, but Sans noticed, and he well knew that something had to change. The Underground’s problems were so extensive, though, so far-reaching, and he was nothing but a small skeleton tucked away in an isolated corner of the Underground. ~~Weak. Helpless. Nothing but a sweet-piece.~~

…but even a sweet-piece could have a few tricks up his sleeve, couldn’t he?

He’d thought it would be more difficult, really. But Papy was happy to help him turn the old shed into a makeshift greenhouse. UV lamps provided plenty of ‘sunlight’. Raised beds made the best use of the limited space. Getting the right seeds was the most difficult part, but Bonny was more than happy to place a few special orders. Papy’s extra-curricular activities provided enough money to grease the necessary palms, and soon enough, Sans had a thriving indoor garden.

Among the tomatoes and carrots and potatoes, he’d planted some of the herbs and flowers the sweet-pieces had taught him about. Lavender and chamomile to help a restless monster find sleep. Echinacea for simple colds. There were other plants, too. All of them with medicinal purposes ~~at a certain dosage~~. He didn’t limit himself to plants, either. Along the back wall, he grew mushrooms as well. ~~Most of them were edible~~.

His most important project was confined to the basement, though. He’d talked with Papy about his idea, and while he’d been reluctant at first, he’d caved eventually, agreeing that _something_ needed to change. Thus, the basement transformed into something that looked more like a chemistry lab than anything else. _Claviceps purpurea_ could be cultivated in isolation, he’d been happy to learn, afraid he’d need to find a way to grow a field of rye. It wasn’t easy, though, and the fungus was temperamental at best. Thankfully, once he’d harvested enough, it was much easier to get a message to Undyne, even if Papy wasn’t exactly happy to play messenger.

She sat down to tea in their kitchen, warily eyeing Papy even as he did the same to her. Sans pushed a tray of teacakes toward her, smiling brightly. “Thank you so much for coming, Captain!”

She grunted, still glaring at Papy. “I came because he said you needed me,” she said, finally turning to regard Sans. “Are you okay? Did something happen? Is he treating you well?”

“Yeah. Brought ya ‘ere ‘cause Sans says ‘m abusin’ ‘im. Go fuck yerself—“

“ _Papy_ ,” Sans chastised, earning an eyeroll and a huff. Clearing his throat, Sans turned back to Undyne. “We’re…well enough. As well as can be expected, at least.”

“Hmph.” She took a sip of her tea, still keeping her eye on Papy. “So? Why am I here?”

“Bro, I c’n talk ta ‘er. Ya don’ need ta be ‘ere. Don’ need ta risk—“

“Papy, it was my idea. My plan. If Undyne feels the need to charge me with treason, then so be it.”

Undyne put the cup down, tea sloshing over the sides. “One of you better start talking right now,” she said, voice low, “or you’re both going to be arrested. You for illegal gambling and smuggling and who the fuck knows what else—“

“You can’t prove shit, fish-bitch.”

“—and you for wasting my time,” she said overtop Papy, pointing to Sans. Papy opened his mouth to retort, but she continued without pause. “So? Who’s gonna explain?” She looked between both of them, and Sans finally pulled out the capped bottle. He pushed it toward her. She eyed it, brow raised.

“You’re familiar with Angel’s Fire?”

“Of course.” The disease came and went Underground, all depending on the state of the wheat harvest. It had grown less common as the monsters grew more experienced with farming underground, but it still cropped up on occasion. Not all monsters were affected, of course. The carnivores, who didn’t eat the contaminated wheat, survived the outbreaks untouched. Skeletons and elemental-types weren’t affected because they didn’t have blood vessels. In fact, only the omnivorous or herbivorous mammals were affected.

So it wouldn’t be that suspicious, if only a single monster were to fall ill. Ergot was not a traditional poison in any case. It was an agent of disease, not murder. ~~Certainly not regicide~~.

He tapped the vial. “This is the fungus that causes it. Powdered for easy use.”

She looked between him and the vial, shaking her head slowly. “Look, squirt, I don’t know where you’re—“

“You and I both know Prince Asriel would make a better king than his father.”

Undyne went very, very quiet. She took the vial, considering it. “Angel’s Fire, huh?”

“Everyone knows Angel’s Fire is…capricious.” The way it passed over one house, only to devastate another had earned the disease a somewhat supernatural reputation, even after they came to understand how it spread. More than a few monsters would whisper to themselves that the old King had done something to displease the Angel. That the Stars had cursed him. “And the symptoms…?” He raised a brow-bone. “You and I both know he’d be deposed. Fast. If he’s not smart enough to step down himself.”

He watched her, noting her considering look. Hallucinations. Convulsions. The sensation of burning in the extremities. Not to mention the more serious effects—gangrene, vision trouble. Possibly death, though Sans didn’t think it would progress to that. No matter what, though, a monster suffering those symptoms could not rule the Underground. Not as it was. A gentler populace might not take advantage, but as things were….

Sans did take some small satisfaction in the knowledge that Asgore would be a victim of the systemic brutality he’d taken such pains to foster.

“And what do you want me to do with this?” Undyne asked, eyeing them both. “What’s the deal here, huh? I…use this. And—what? What’s in it for you two?”

Papy stepped forward, laying a hand on Sans’ shoulder. “There’s no deal, fish. No price. ‘s a gift. An’ not one either ‘a us expect ya ta repay. Or ta use, if tha’s what you decide.”

Her brow crept higher. “I don’t understand.”

He and Sans shared a look. “We’re jus’ a pair ‘a gutter-rats, sweetheart,” he said, grinning when she bristled at the pet-name. “Politics’re a bit above us, doncha think?”

“So this…?”

“Is for you to decide,” Sans said, shrugging. “Papy’s right. I didn’t even spend a year in the palace. I can see that something’s wrong. Very wrong. And not just in the palace—everywhere. We’re tearing each other apart, and something has to change. It has to. But….” He gestured helplessly. “I don’t know what or how. You be the judge, Captain. You’re strong. Intelligent. Principled. I trust you to know what’s best for us. Take the vial. Do whatever you think is best. It shouldn’t spoil, so you can take your time.”

She looked at the vial and pocketed it. She stirred her tea but had apparently lost her appetite—she didn’t take any of the teacakes and she didn’t drink again. “This meeting…?” she said slowly, as if it was a question.

“Was my first interview for the guard,” Sans said, and she jumped, brow-bone raised.

“You’re kidding, right?”

He beamed at her, demeanor sunny and sweet. “Certainly not, Captain! I am very dedicated to making the Underground a better, safer place! I would be delighted to serve in the guard—if you’d be kind enough to consider my application.”

He passed the application to her, still beaming. She eyed it. Eyed him. Then finally eyed Papy, who just winked. “C’mon, Cap’n. Ya know my bro’d be a good choice. Who better ta keep the riff-raff in line than the Sensation Sans? Sure does a good job ‘round ‘ere, doesn’ he?” Grabbing the application, she shook her head, torn between annoyed, amused, and thoughtful.

After she left, the brothers regarded each other silently. “Think she’ll do it?” Papy asked, and Sans shrugged.

“Don’t know,” he said.

“Think she should?”

Another shrug. He dipped his finger in his tea and used the water to trace patterns on the lacquered wood. “Papy?”

“Yeah, bro?”

“…do you think things can get better? Or is this…is this the best we can hope for?”

To his surprise, his brother’s face split into a wide, genuine grin. “Aw, darlin’. Things ain’t that bad, are they? We got each other. Got a roof overhead. Got plenty ‘a food. Things’re already better’n they were, right?” He scrubbed a hand over Sans’ skull, scratching at his coronal suture. He sat beside him and snatched up a teacake, wiping off the frosting with his finger before popping the cake into his mouth. When Sans just continued to trace patterns on the table, Papy pulled Sans’ chair beside his, draping an arm over his shoulders. “Wha’s on yer mind, little bro?”

He snuggled into Papy’s side, ready to cry. “I…I just. I hate this. I hate feeling so helpless. So small. Like…nothing I do matters.” ~~Like a sweet-piece~~.

Papy’s brow-bone lifted. “Like nuthin’ ya do matters,” he echoed. Then, wiping off his hands, he drew Sans up and pushed him out of the kitchen. “C’mon. We’re goin’ on a field trip.”

Confused, Sans allowed Papy to guide him out into the snow. They passed a number of monsters as they went. Some of them leered at Sans, earning a vicious glare from Papy. Others waved and stopped for a moment, moving on when they realized Sans wasn’t in the mood to talk. Sans paused when they reached the shop, trying to figure out what Papy was up to. He didn’t protest when Papy brought him inside, though, or when he called out, “Heya! Anybody ‘ere?”

Bonny and Cinnamon—her kit—came in from the stockroom, grinning when they saw Papy and Sans. “Well, hello!” Bonny said, while Cinna ran over to hug Papy’s leg and beg Sans for a treat. “Cinna! Don’t be rude!” she chastised, but she was smiling. Looking at the two skeletons, she asked, “And how can I help you today?”

“Jus’ a social call,” Papy said, “Wan’ed ta know how it’s goin’ ‘round ‘ere. Any gossip fer me?”

A sly look crossed Bonny’s face, and she sidled closer to share what she’d heard. While they talked, Cinna took Sans’ hand and brought him to the box of toys Bonny kept under the counter for him. He was a pretty quiet kit, but he was happy to push his toys into Sans’ arms and tell him all about them. Sitting on the floor, Sans smiled gently, not fully able to understand what the kit was saying but happy to sit and listen, nodding as appropriate. Had Papy brought him here to cheer him up? He supposed talking to the little kit did make him feel somewhat better….

They didn’t stay long, going on to visit the Innkeeper and Grillby. The Librarbian got a visit too, as did the guards. All of them were pleased to see him, even if they glared at Papy or threatened him. Sans supposed it did cheer him up a little, talking to the people he’d gotten to know since his stay in Snowdin. He wasn’t really in the mood to talk, but their smiles did make him feel a bit better.

Finally, as they started for home, Papy asked, “So…still feel like nuthin’ ya do matters?”

Sans blinked, looking up at him. “I…uh? Y…yes?” He didn’t know what he was supposed to say, so he told the truth.

Shaking his head, Papy pushed open their door and brought him back inside. “Sans…think back, yeah? Months ago. Ya remember what it was like ‘round here when ya first arrived?” Slowly, he nodded, and Papy grinned. “Ya made a difference ta them, didn’ ya?”

Sans huffed, impatient. “That doesn’t count.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because—I’m not—I didn’t—I was just _nice_ to them. That’s all.”

Scrubbing the top of his skull, Papy said, “Ya gave ‘em a friendly face. Food they could trust. A kind word. Ya gave ‘em sumthin’ ta believe in. Sumthin’ ta hope fer. ‘s jus’ a bunch ‘a little things, yeah. But they mean more’n ya think, bro. Mean a lot. Ta them…an’ ta me.” Kneeling down, he framed Sans’ face between his hands. “Long as yer ‘round, I’ll always believe things c’n get better.”

The words stunned him. He hadn’t even considered that such small things could mean anything. Chest hitching, he leaned into Papy and started to cry. “I-it’s so _hard_ ,” he said, forehead pressing into his brother’s chest. “Why’s it so hard?” Papy ran a soothing hand up and down his spine.

“I know,” he said, holding him close. “Hope hurts,” he said, chin resting on top of his skull, “but ‘s worth it. Promise, sweetheart. ‘S worth it.”

Sans wasn’t sure if he believed him. Not at that moment, at least. He simply allowed his brother to hold him, taking comfort from his solidity and strength. But the next time he went out to deliver cinnamon skulls, he took note of the smiles he received. The thanks. He saw the way the other monsters’ shoulders relaxed, how they invited him to stay and talk. Others still called him ‘sweet-piece’ as they passed, and Papy’s fierce glares wouldn’t ever quiet them. Sans chose to block it out, clinging to those little signs.

He wasn’t sure how to react when Undyne sent a messenger, ordering him to report for guard training. They’d only meant for that to serve as a ruse. A cover story. But it was nice, spending time with her. Sparring. Cooking. And talking about ways the Underground could change. Could be better. Could be different.

But his first real glimmer of hope came when—months later—King Asgore stepped down and allowed his son to take the throne. There was no mention of illness or Angel’s Fire. And when Sans next visited Undyne, he didn’t ask. But he accepted the stack of posters she passed him—slogans like ‘Spread love, not LOVE’ printed on bright backgrounds—with a smile.

“Your first order as an official guard-in-training,” she said, “is to post these around Snowdin. Think you can handle it?”

He saluted swiftly. “Absolutely, Captain!”

For the first time in a long time, Sans actually had hope that things could change for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: LV issues, off-screen violence and death, issues of self-worth, oblique references to rape, references to poisoning, references to regicide. Explicit--not non-graphic--mention of very serious, debilitating illness/poisoning.


	9. Bucket List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's so much to do once they reach the surface. And Twist wants to try _everything_.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~So much to do. So little time.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING IN THE ENDNOTES. CONTAINS SPOILERS. PLEASE READ IF YOU HAVE ANY THEMES IN FICTION YOU HAVE TROUBLE DEALING WITH.**

Edge sighed, staring at the fourth attempt at a cake. He ran a hand down his face, while Twist just studied it, puzzled. “So…what’d I do wrong?”

“Well I think being born was likely your first mistake.”

“Hey! I was created in a lab, an’ I think ya know that.”

Edge sighed, rubbing the space between his sockets. “Are you quite certain you don’t just want to let me make the cake?”

“No!” Twist said, and Edge raised a brow-bone. Twist rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “Sorry, darlin’. But, uh, this is import’nt, yeah?”

Edge sighed. “Fine. Let’s try this again. For the fifth time.”

Twist, infuriatingly, beamed at him.

-

“Hey, sweetheart, ya ever thought ‘bout goin’ skydivin’?”

“…you’re joking, right?”

“So tha’s a no?”

“twist. that’s an emphatic ‘no’ with a series of exclamation marks at the end of it.”

“…Oh. Well. Uh…so now that ya’ve thought ‘bout it, ya think maybe ya’d be in’erested? Hey. Hey! Rus? Where’re ya goin’?”

-

“Hey, darlin’? If ya could go anywhere in the world…where would ya go?”

Red blinked, taking a pull on his beer. “dunno. haven’ thought ‘bout it much, i guess.”

Staring up the ceiling, Twist said. “There’re so many places up ‘ere. So many things ta see, ya know? An’ not half ‘nough time ta see ‘em all.”

Red just grunted. “so where’d you go, then? if ya could go anywhere?”

“The moon,” Twist said, dead serious. Red chuckled and Twist cracked a grin. “Not sure. Ev’rest would be cool ta see. Fun ta climb, too.”

Red laughed. “you an’ me got different definitions ‘a ‘fun’.”

Twist glanced at him and winked, clinking his beer against Red’s. “Not always, sweetheart. Not always.” For a little while, he was quiet, then he asked, “If ya could fuck anyone in the world, who would it be?”

-

Twist sat beside Slim, watching his fingers move over the keys. “So…how d’ya do this, darlin’? Where do I put my fingers?”

Slim smiled serenely and stilled his hands. “here. like this.” Twist laid his hands overtop his and waited.

“Right. Now what?”

Slim chuckled. “we’ll start with something simple.” He slowly moved his fingers over the board, and Twist followed him doggedly, a hesitant rendition of ‘Hot Cross Buns’ sounding out. Slim pulled his hands away. “now do it on your own.”

Twist nodded and took a breath, fingers playing over the keys. “Like this?”

“yeah. like that. you’re doing really good.” Slim smiled softly, and Twist beamed, a rumbling purr rattling his bones.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Fer, ya know, teachin’ me. ‘preciate it.”

“of course. i’m…i’m happy to.” Slim blushed as he said it, and for a moment, they were both aware of how close they were sitting, aware of the warmth of the monster beside them. Then Twist cleared his throat and returned his attention to the piano.

“So…I jus’ keep doin’ this, or…?”

“oh. right. um. here. let me get the sheet music. you’ll, uh, you’ll need to know how to read it.”

-

“Hey, Pap. Got a question fer ya.”

“OH! HELLO, TWISTED ME. WHAT CAN I HELP YOU WITH?”

“Ya wanna go ta Washington with me? ‘pparently there’re monsters up ‘ere that never got driven Underground. They’re shy, though. Wanna see if I can draw ‘em out. Ya know. Make friends.”

“THAT’S AN _EXCELLENT_ IDEA! AS AMBASSADOR, IT IS MY DUTY—NAY! MY PLEASURE TO FIND THESE MONSTERS AND REUNITE THEM WITH THEIR PEOPLE!”

“Sweet. Pack a bag. Plane leaves in…” He checked his watch. “Five hours.”

-

“Heya, darlin’!”

Cash just glared at him and went back to reading his newspaper. Twist scooted closer. Cash scooted away. Twist scooted closer again, and Cash was out of room on the couch. He didn’t say anything until Twist was close enough to put his chin on Cash’s shoulder and say, almost directly into his acoustic meatus, “Whatcha doin’?”

“trying not to lose my patience. what do you want?”

“You’re inta gamblin’ an’ shit, right? A real high roller?”

Cash’s interest was peaked, but he tried not to show it. “you could say that, yes.”

“…So would ya be in’erested in goin’ ta Vegas with me? Got tickets to a magic show.” Cash shook out the newspaper, turning the page. “But tha’s more my thing than yers, I bet. Reserved the penthouse suite at….” He tilted his head back. “The Bellagio? Yeah. That sounds right. Figured tha’s a lot a space fer little ol’ me. More’n enough room fer a friend.” Cash glanced at him, brow-bone raised.

“twist. i’ve seen your pay check. how the fuck did you—?”

Twist smiled slowly and raised a hand, holding up Cash’s wallet. “Right. Yeah. So. Might’ve misspoke b’fore. _You_ reserved a room at the Bellagio. Rented a convertible too, fer the trip out that way. Pretty little thing. Real smooth ride. Should—“

“you little—!” Cash snatched his wallet back and glared at him. Twist just grinned, somehow managing to look _innocent_ after committing actual theft. He flipped through his wallet to make sure he hadn’t stolen anything else. “you picked my pocket?! when?”

Twist shrugged. “Sorry, sweetheart. You c’n take the rat outta the gutter, but ya can’t take the gutter outta the rat, I guess.”

Cash shook his head…but he was eyeing Twist with calculation now. “…yeah. i bet. and i bet a gutter-rat like you has more than a few tricks up his sleeve.”

A slow smile spread across Twist’s face, and he indeed produced a coin from seemingly nowhere. “Yeah. Ya could say that, darlin’.”

Cash grunted, looking between Twist and his recovered wallet. It had been _ages_ since someone had rolled him like that. He could put those talents to good use. Especially in a place like Vegas. With another calculated look, he declared, “fine. but you’re sleeping on the floor.”

“Aw, darlin’—“ But a particularly harsh glare silenced him. It didn’t wipe the smug grin off his face, though.

-

Blue looked between Twist and the long trench filled with hot coals. He could feel the heat radiating off of them. “I’m not so sure about this.”

“Aw, c’mon, darlin’. Ya ain’t havin’ second thoughts are ya?”

Blue took a breath. “Second thoughts, yes. And third thoughts. Maybe even fourth thoughts.”

Twist leaned down, planting his hands on Blue’s shoulders. “Ya remember what they said durin’ class, yeah? Jus’ keep walkin’ an’ stay calm. Don’ run. Don’ rush it, and don’ stop no matter what. Here. I’ll go first, if it’ll make ya feel better ‘bout it.”

Blue shook his head. “No. No. I can do it. Just. Give me a moment.” He took a deep breath, and started across, blocking out Twist’s encouraging shouts.

At the end of the trench, when his bare feet were back on cool grass, all his breath left him in a rush and a huge grin lit up his face. He ran to his brother—watching anxiously from the sidelines—and hugged him, chattering excitedly while they watched Twist walk across the coals himself. A huge smile lit his face, and he joined them soon enough, laughing as he lifted them both off the ground in a celebratory hug.

-

Red grinned as he opened the mailbox, pulling out the latest series of post cards. There was one with a picture of Mount Everest on the front. The others were all places he couldn’t recognize, the caption on the bottom of the card little more than gibberish to his uneducated sockets. The back of each card was filled with Twist’s shockingly neat writing, narrating his journey across Nepal and the Himalayas.

He brought the cards inside, reading the backs as he drank his morning cup of coffee. Smiling to himself, he pinned the fresh batch of post cards to the corkboard. There was already a collage of similar cards from all over the world pinned to it.

Maybe Twist was right. Maybe there wasn’t enough time to see _everything_ , but damn if the crazy fucker wasn’t trying his best.

-

“how did you talk me into this?” Rus demanded, knees shaking as the door of the plane was thrown open.

“Same way I talked my way inta bed with Cash. Persistence.”

Rus blinked. “…what?”

But Twist was grinning as his jump partner strapped him into the tandem harness. The instructor was reminding Rus that he would be just fine. He didn’t have to do anything—just let his jump partner do all the work. His soul pounded, terrified. But Twist and his partner were already out the door, and now everyone was looking at him and—

They.

They were.

_Falling!_

Rus swore at the top of his voice all the way down, the wind whipping his words away until even he couldn’t hear what he was saying. His soul only settled marginally when the parachute deployed and—after the initial jerk against the harness—they started to drift down at a more leisurely pace. When they landed, though, his knees were shaking and, if not for his flight partner, he’d likely have allowed himself to slip bonelessly to the ground in gratitude.

Twist, infuriatingly, was laughing recklessly and swearing in pure, undiluted joy. “Fuck yeah! Yes! _Fucking hell!_ ” Manic grin in place, he looked back at Rus and said, “We’ve gotta do that again.”

Rus, speechless, gave him both middle fingers—dissatisfied when Twist’s only response was another joyous whoop.

-

“Next time, ya wanna try Jersey? Heard there’s a monster out that way with a real nasty reputation. Poor guy’s prob’ly jus’ lonely.”

“HMMM. I SUPPOSE.” Papyrus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “BUT I THINK WE SHOULD DO MORE RESEARCH NEXT TIME. I’M NOT SURE THE LOCALS TOOK OUR QUEST VERY SERIOUSLY. AND I’M QUITE CERTAIN ‘BIGFOOT’ IS SOME KIND OF PEJORATIVE.”

Twist nodded seriously. “Yeah. Yer prob’ly right. Can’t say I’d be all that keen ta come say ‘hi’ if someone was yellin’ racial slurs at me either. Can’t really blame the poor guy.”

Papyrus patted him on the back. “I KNOW YOU’RE DISAPPOINTED, TWISTED-ME, BUT WE DID LEAVE THEM SOME BROCHURES! I’M CERTAIN THEY’LL CALL US ONCE THEY REALIZE OUR INTENTIONS ARE ONLY GOOD.”

He brightened at that. “Yeah. Yeah!” He knocked his shoulder against Papyrus’. “Thanks, darlin’. Ya always know jus’ what ta say.”

Papyrus beamed. “NOW…JERSEY, YOU SAY?”

-

Twist’s fingers played across the keys. He stumbled in a few places, and he hit a few wrong notes, but the melody was recognizable, and his playing was soft and sweet—at odds with the look of intense concentration on his face. The song came to an end and he sat back, features inscrutable.

“something wrong?” Slim asked.

“…This is hard, sweetheart. Harder’n I expected.”

Slim nodded sagely. “yeah.” He sat beside Twist and, nudging him to make room, set his hands on the keys. His fingers flowed over the board, smooth and easy. He relaxed into it, smiling softly. “it takes time.”

“Time,” Twist echoed. “Yeah.”

Slim eyed him. “twist?”

He shook his head, his smile returning—just as bright as always. “Show me how it goes again?”

For a moment, Slim hesitated, tempted to push him. Instead, he shook away his unease and set about showing Twist how the song was played once more.

-

Smiling proudly, Twist carried the cake out to the dining room, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at the top of his voice. Never mind that neither of them actually knew what day they’d been ‘born’. It was the thought that mattered. Blackberry was smiling and kicking his feet, pleased to be the center of attention. The others stood around the table, singing as well. Carefully, Twist set the cake on the table, soul warming when Blackberry leaned over the table to blow out the candles as the song came to an end.

He studied the cake. “Oh, wow, Edge you really outdid yourself this time! This is beautiful!”

“I didn’t make it,” Edge said, a very slight smile softening his features almost imperceptibly.

Blackberry cocked his head. “Blue?” Blue shook his head too. “Um…did you…buy…it?” They all shook their heads. “Then…who…?” Twist smiled and winked at his brother, pretending not to be hurt when Blackberry’s face fell a little. “Papy? You…? Really?”

“Yep!” Twist said, chin lifted. “Wan’ed ta su’prise ya.”

Blackberry did a remarkable job of hiding his disappointment. “Oh, Papy—you didn’t have to do that!” he said, voice bright.

“I know but….” He scuffed a foot against the floor. “Was important ta me. Dunno why. Jus’. Wan’ed ta do it.”

Blackberry’s smile grew more genuine. “Aw. Papy….”

“would someone just cut the fucking cake?” Cash asked gruffly. “you two are making me sick.”

Edge calmly cuffed him, earning a glare and a rude gesture. “Blackberry? Would you care to do the honors?”

Nodding eagerly, Blackberry grabbed the knife and—leaning away from the cake—cut through the frosting and the sponge. The smell of chocolate wafted through the air, rich and heady. When the cake failed to explode, Blackberry leaned close and observed, “Oh, wow. It looks…it looks really good, Papy!” He didn’t quite manage to hide his surprise, but Twist couldn’t exactly blame him for that.

“Hopefully it tastes good, too,” Twist said, scratching at the back of his neck. After several long sessions with Edge, he’d finally managed to consistently produce a cake that wasn’t just edible but tasted _good_. Still, Edge hadn’t been there to help him out this time. He might have fucked it up without the other skeleton around to monitor his progress.

“I’M SURE IT’S DELICIOUS, TWISTED-ME.” No one really commented on that, but there were a few uneasy glances exchanged. Edge, however, just stared back at him coolly and…confidently? Somehow, that made Twist’s shoulders relax marginally.

“Well?” Edge said, “You’re the guest of honor, Blackberry. It only seems fair you get the first bite.”

Blackberry hesitated, but ultimately nodded. “Yes! You’re…You’re absolutely right! As the birthday boy I am obligated— _honored_ to have the first piece!”

He beamed at his brother, but Twist could see the strain in his cheekbones and around his sockets. He cut a piece of cake—a small piece, given Blackberry’s usual opinion that more was better—and set it on a plate. Daintily, he used a fork to cut a small piece away. He lifted the fork, holding it in front of his face as if to study it before putting it in his mouth. Smiling uneasily, he eyed Twist and, with a nearly imperceptible fortifying breath, took a bite.

His sockets went wide and his pupils burst into stars. Still holding the fork, he asked, “Papy? You _made_ this? Really?”

Soul pounding so hard he could nearly hear it echoing in his skull, Twist nodded eagerly, breathing still a little unsteady. “So it’s...it’s good?”

“Good?” Blackberry asked, “It’s _incredible!_ ”

Twist didn’t doubt his word. The hesitance and traces of uneasiness were all gone. He cheerfully cut the rest of the cake and split it amongst the other guests, making sure to give himself another—more generous—slice. And when Twist took the first bite, his bones went limp with relief. He wasn’t exactly a fan of chocolate, but he knew that this was what the cake was supposed to taste like—sweet but not cloying, rich and moist.

Soul still fluttering in a mix of relief and adrenaline, he looked up and caught Edge’s socket—and grinned fiercely when Edge offered him a nearly imperceptible nod of approval.

-

Annoyed, Cash sorted through the various bits and pieces of what, to him, looked like nothing more than trash stuffed into the top drawer of Twist’s desk. It wasn’t here either. He _knew_ the fucker had stolen his keys again. Stars alone knew _why_ , but he—

His own name caught his attention. Brow-bones furrowed, he dug the sheet of paper out of the pile and studied it.

  * Learn to play an instrument (piano?)
  * ~~Go skydiving~~
  * ~~Climb Mt. Everest~~
  * ~~Try firewalking~~
  * ~~See a magic show (a human magic show)~~
  * ~~Talk Cash into bed~~
  * ~~Bake a cake for Sans’ birthday~~
  * Find bigfoot or another surface monster
  * Swim with sharks
  * Go to Peru
  * ~~Go to Nepal~~
  * ~~See the Grand Canyon~~
  * ~~Go to Vegas~~
  * See Italy
  * ~~Visit China~~
  * ~~See Thailand~~
  * Visit—



More place names were listed. Some were crossed out, but many remained. He nearly put the list away, dismissing it, when he saw the remaining items, down at the very bottom.

  * See Sans graduate from school
  * Make sure Sans has access to the bank accounts and passwords
  * Get Cash to see a therapist
  * Pay off the house
  * Pay off the car
  * Clean room
  * Delete browser history



These things weren’t like the items at the top of the list. He had to sit down, staring at the list. His chest felt tight and hot. Like he was teetering on the verge of rage or panic, though he couldn’t have said why, exactly.

The door opened and Twist walked in, apparently unsurprised to see Cash in his bedroom. “Sweetheart, I told ya, I ain’t got yer keys. Did ya look in the—?”

“what is this?” Cash asked, holding up the paper.

Twist’s sockets briefly widened, but then he was grinning again. That famous, ever-present grin. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shrugged, barely twitching his shoulders. “ ‘s a list, sweetheart. Thought that’d be obvious.”

“yeah, fine. but a list of _what_?”

“Things I wanna do. Places I wanna see.”

Cash studied the list again. “…we haven’t fucked.”

He chuckled. “Doesn’t say ‘fuck’ anywhere on that list, darlin’. I know my limits. Happy ‘nough ta talk ya inta sharin’ a bed with me.”

That sense of wrongness remained—magnified by Twist’s carefree demeanor. “why?”

“’cause yer so cuddly. Had ta know what it was like ta sleep next ta ya at least once—“

“no. why do you…? why a list?”

Twist started playing idly with his coin, and that only put Cash further on edge. “Ya don’ have one? Even jus’ up ‘ere.” He tapped his skull and eyed Cash questioningly.

“that’s different.”

“Is it?”

“ _yes_ , twist,” Cash snapped, standing. “it’s different. ‘see sans graduate’? ‘ _clean room’?_ that’s. that’s not even remotely the same.”

Twist shrugged dismissively. “If ya say so, darlin’. So, ya wan’ help findin’ yer keys or—?”

“i want you to tell me what the fuck this is, twist!” Cash shouted, mere inches from him now.

Twist’s grin didn’t even waver. “Ya know what it is, sweetheart. An’ ya know why I have it. Don’ play stupid with me.”

Cash glared at him, his breathing uneven. “you don’t. you don’t _need_ this,” he snarled. “why would you need this? you’re-you’re _fine._ ”

For the first time, Twist’s smile slipped, melting into something much worse—pity. “Aw, sweetheart….” He reached for Cash, but Cash jerked away, refusing to be comforted. “C’mon, darlin’, don’ be like that. I’m…I ain’t gonna be ‘ere forever. Ya know that.” He tapped his skull again. “Things up ‘ere ain’t right. The LV. It’s, uh, it’s gonna get ta me sooner rather’n later. So I…I wanna make the best ‘a the time I got.”

But Cash was shaking his head. “no,” he said, glaring. “ _no_.”

Twist raised a brow-bone. “No?” He laughed, a trace of bitterness evident in his sockets. “Patches, you of all people should know that everythin’ comes with a price. LV’s a kind ‘a currency underground. Least, it was. Kept me an’ Sans safe. Kept us fed an’ protected. But that kinda thing don’ come free. Think I’ve done pretty good, really, keepin’ it tagether ‘til now. But I c’n only do it fer so long ‘fore I fall apart. Ya know that, sweetheart. Yer Fell, same as me.”

“twist—“

Twist caught him up, cupping his face between both hands. “Don’. Don’ make this harder fer me.” Twist searched his good socket, grip tight enough to be painful. “Patches. _Cash_. I’ll get down on my knees an’ beg if tha’s what it takes, but _please_. Don’. I’ve accepted it. I know the fate I’ve got comin’. ‘til then? I’m gonna live my best life. An’ I can’t do that if yer fighting me over it. Ya un’erstand?”

Barely. Twist’s accent had grown thicker as he spoke, and his eyelight was almost painfully bright. “why does it say ‘delete browser history’?” Cash asked, voice rough.

“Well, see, darlin’. When a guy’s got some time alone, sumtimes he—“

“ _twist_.”

That alone caused Twist to flinch. He looked away but didn’t drop his hands. “…sweetheart. C’mon. Ya know it’ll be better if…if I never get ta the point ‘a bein’ dang’rous. Ya know that, doncha?”

“no,” Cash said, pulling out of Twist’s grip. He pointed a finger at him, glaring hard. “no. you don’t. you don’t _do_ this.”

“Sweetheart, I could hurt someone. Someone that don’ deserve—“

_“i don’t give a shit!_ you’re not—!” He was breathing hard now and his bones felt hot, the raw magic rushing through his mana lines. “you’re not doing this. you’re not. i won’t let you.”

Twist sighed, looking tired in a way that Cash had never seen before. Then, true to his word, he slipped to his knees and took Cash’s hand, kissing it as if he were paying homage to a monarch. “Please, Cash. This is hard ‘nough already. Don’ make it harder’n it has ta be.”

“ _stop it!_ ” Cash snarled, tempted to kick him away. Instead, he caught Twist by the shoulders and forced him back on his feet. His grip was tight, clutching at Twist’s bones. Unable to stop himself, he shook him firmly. All the while, his skull pounded. “you’re not dying, you idiot. you’re fucking— _you’re fucking fine._ you—“

But Twist wasn’t looking at him. His focus was on the floor and his shoulders were hunched. His remaining eyelight was out, and he reached up, catching Cash’s hand in his own. “Patches…. I’m not fine. But yer right…’m not _dying_. An’ tha’s the problem, yeah? My LV ain’t gonna kill me, but I ain’t gonna be me anymore. Jus’ gonna be…” He shrugged. “…a killer. I ain’t gonna let that happen, if I c’n help it. The bottom ‘a the list? Tha’s fer…tha’s fer later. When I know I can’t keep hold ‘a myself anymore. ‘cause hurting Blackberry? Or Rus? Or Slim—or _you_? Tha’s…tha’s not an option. This ain’t ‘bout what I _want_ , sweetheart. This is…this is the best I got out of a bunch ‘a shit choices. So don’ make it harder for me. Please, Patches. Please.” He looked up then, squeezing Cash’s hand. “Jus’…lemme do what I gotta do.”

Cash’s soul was still hot, still pulsing. Magic hovered just out of his reach, available if he needed to fight or flee. His throat was thick and he had to clear it once, twice, before saying, “just tell me one thing.”

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“if your lv wasn’t a problem. if you knew for sure that you weren’t going to fall…what would you do?”

A sad smile broke across Twist’s face. “Me? Fuck, sweetheart, I’d _live_.” His hand snaked up to cup Cash’s cheek, and something unnamed briefly flickered in his sockets. Then he swallowed and drew his hand away to tap his temple. “The list I got up ‘ere? ‘s a lot longer.” He eyed the list still clutched in Cash’s hand. “Had ta cut a few things fer time, ya know?” He looked away. “So…ya need help findin’ yer keys or not?”

Cash just stared at him, unable to find the words. Twist seemed to take his silence as acquiescence. “Promise they ain’t up ‘ere,” he said, “Let’s check downstairs, huh? Might be lost in the couch cushions again. Er stuck in one ‘a yer coat pockets. C’mon, sweetheart. I’ll help ya look.” Deftly, he plucked the list from Cash’s numb fingertips and ushered him outside, making the list disappear as deftly as he made that damn coin disappear.

Still mute, Cash allowed himself to be led out of the room. He even helped Twist look for his keys, though he could no longer remember why the errand he’d wanted to run was so important. When Twist managed to dig them out from under the couch—and who the hell even knew how they’d ended up there—Cash accepted them without a word, but he just ended up taking a long, long drive, breaking his own rule about smoking in the car as he did so. The scenery changed around him. Houses faded into fields of weeds and wildflowers, cattle and sheep grazing in the empty expanse. He drove until the trees grew thick and the road grew narrow and he barely knew where he was anymore. Then he just kept going.

He’d seen the entirety of his Underground cut down before his sockets. His own brother—a figure feared and hated just as much as he was loved—had been killed right in front of him. He’d walked through streets empty of monsters but full of dust, the chalky powder so thick on the air it had clotted at the back of his throat. He’d stood before the dust-coated child and pronounced his judgment, no matter how ill equipped he was to judge anyone. And he’d survived. Walked away untouched and unscathed—and unworthy of that bitter blessing.

Cash understood death and loss, and he was intimately acquainted with injustice. He told himself that he shouldn’t care about Twist. People died. Some people died young. And more than a few died by their own hands. It wasn’t fair, of course, but life wasn’t fair, and trying to rail against that was like trying to scream down the stars. You could scream and scream and scream yourself hoarse, but it would change nothing.

The stars would remain cold, distant observers. Life would continue to knock him on his ass the moment he thought he’d managed to climb to his feet. And Twist…. Twist was going to die.

He pulled off the road and climbed out of the car, coming to lean against the guardrail. The sun had already disappeared behind the mountain, but the moon was just starting to rise, its pale face reflected in the still water of the lake. Cash stared at it, and stared at it hard. Then, with a wrenching scream, he raised his hands, summoning a myriad of magic constructs.

He hacked and slashed at the water, deafened by the roar of magic in his earholes. Only when his hands started shaking did he release his magic and sink to the ground, finally allowing a few beads of purple magic to leak from his sockets. But after his tears dried, he got up, dusted himself off, and began to plan.

-

Alphys was startled to find one of the Papyrus-es waiting for her when she came to the lab the next morning. She didn’t really know him, but she certainly knew _of_ him. He was Fell and…not very nice. She hesitated as she approached the front door. He slouched against the side of the building, watching her impatiently as he played with a gold coin.

Stopping a few feet away, keys in her hands, Alphys asked, “C-can I h-help you w-with something?”

“you study lv, right? you’re looking for a way to reverse the effects, aren’t you?”

His words were more a demand than a question, and she took an instinctive step back, shrinking in on herself. “W-well. I-I-I mean. We d-do but n-not me. You’d w-want t-to talk to m-my c-colleague—“

“i’m talking to you,” he said sharply, and she cringed, looking down as he pulled away from the wall. His footsteps crunched across the asphalt and she squeaked when his shadow fell over her. “i want to fund that project.”

Her head snapped up. “W-what?”

“i want to fund that project,” he said again, voice clipped. Holding out a business card, he stared her down until she took it from him. “if my lawyers don’t hear from a representative within two business days, you’ll be hearing from me again.”

She pushed her glasses up her nose, nodding vigorously. “O-of course! W-we’re, um, we’re always h-happy to receive any s-support—“

“one more thing,” he said, cutting her off. She flinched, wondering what he might demand. “as far as you or anyone is concerned, the funds come from an anonymous donor. no one—not your coworkers, not your girlfriend, not _any_ of the other skeletons— _no one_ is to know who i am. is that clear?”

Totally robbed of speech, she nodded frantically.

“good.” With that, he stepped aside and started walking toward a sleek sports car. “two days,” he reminded her, not even glancing over his shoulder.

She nodded, looking down at the business card. Her heart hammered in fear, but when the car pulled out of the lot, she couldn’t help but crack a small smile. The other Alphys—the one they’d been calling Iggy—would be delighted. Funding was always tricky and any contribution, no matter how small, would be appreciated. Only later, when Iggy came running into her office, so happy she was babbling, did Alphys come to understand exactly how generous the skeleton’s donation had been. Iggy wouldn’t need to worry about money for a good long while, and if all she needed to do was send a few monthly reports to their anonymous donor, she was more than happy to comply.

Her floundering project had some hope for success after all, it seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning:** Light warning for skydiving, sudden mood-shift, unexpected angst, themes of death, terminal illness, and suicide. (Sacrificial suicide, not related to depression.) Also references to past genocide route, past bad brother au, and survivor's guilt. 
> 
> Non-triggering version can be found [HERE](https://kitstwistfellau.tumblr.com/post/176144250500/bucket-list).

**Author's Note:**

> For art, character bios, and headcanons posts, go to [@kitstwistfellau](https://kitstwistfellau.tumblr.com).


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